143 senses and the city Sense and sensibility [Maria Nazionale 1 - Jane Austen 0] And now, what am I supposed to do? What would I write about? What can I say that has not already been narrated, shown, studied, explained, filmed, photographed, sung? Maybe I can try to start from a question: is there a more sensual and synesthetic city than Naples? I do not know. And, in any case, this doesn't solve the problem for me. I could throw myself into literature, a stellar roster of names to fill all my available space. Ficking my nose into shelves, fishing into memory: Elena Ferrante Anna Maria Ortese Benedetto Croce Raffaele La Capria Paolo Sorrentino Roberto Saviano Maurizio De Giovanni Valeria Parrella Antonella Cilento Benedetta Cibrario Antonella Ossorio Ermanno Rea Domenico Rea Francesco Durante Diego De Silva Francesco Piccolo Giuseppe Marotta Matilde Serao Eduardo Erri De Luca Wanda Marasco Giuseppe Montesano Silvio Perrella Luciano De Crescenzo Fabrizia Ramondino Domenico Starnone Attilio Veraldi Nicola Pugliese Roberto De Simone the arch-Neapolitan Pietro Treccagnoli. A deep breath, and again: Dumas father, Stendhal, Roger Peyrefitte, Boccaccio, Curzio Malaparte, Marguerite Yourcenar, Sàndor Màrai, Norman Lewis, Goethe [who, by the way, never told this Paradise inhabited by devils’ hogwash]. My beloved Gian Battista Basile and Enzo Striano, the unfindable Volcano lover by Susan Sontag. Not to mention guides, counter-guides, curiosity books, museum and exhibition catalogs. In short, my library is chock-full on Naples, Neapolitan and Campanian authors in general. Could it be the emigrant syndrome? Probably yes. Because I don’t live in Naples anymore. I spent my first forty years under Vesuvius, red zone. Then I moved elsewhere. At first it was rough going. Tragic, I dare say. I’ll never be able to say what I missed so much. Perhaps the sky, that cuts out Piazza San Domenico; the sudden downpours in Toledo street; the slow pace beside the sea; or that Girolamini Cloister’s column; Perino & Vele’s Fiat Cinquecento at the Salvator Rosa Metro Station; the golden light of the Treasure Chapel. In spite of everything, that is home to me. No matter if Circumvesuviana does not pass, if subway comes to whatever time it wants , let’s not even mention buses. Despite dirt, degradation, anarchy, flattery. Despite the tight shoulder bag and the ritual of chain, bracelets and gold rings’ undressing as soon as the train enters Piazza Garibaldi. Precautions learned when I was a girl, now adopted also in other cities. Big cities. And when I am elsewhere, especially abroad, if I see a picture by Luca Giordano, I am swollen with pride: other Countries, other Giordanos. When my colleagues and northern friends come [go] down, they first tell me what and how much they ate. Soon after, they complain about the big mess there was [excuse me, gentlemen, we are a three million people metropolitan area...]. Almost absent-mindedly, I counterattack: What did you visit? Have you been to Duomo? And to Capodimonte? Oh yes, the Veiled Christ... What am I supposed to do now? What would I write about? At some point I just have to suck it up: it is impossible to avoid the traps of rhetoric, of oil painting, of folklore. Sun, sky, sea, pizza, sfogliatella and coffee, Totò, Eduardo, Sophia Loren selling contraband cigarettes, Pino Daniele, tarantellas and drama songs, Maradona è megl’ ‘e Pelé. After all Naples, even before being a city, is such a worldwide typecast sensibility that this is also what is expected of it, doesn't it?
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