The scent of spring filled the large room laboratory. The purple marble floor polished like a mirror reflecting the furniture solid, sober and austere neat adjacent to the light walls. On the shelves of the beliefs and console transparent glasses were full of heady roses, freshly cut roses from the garden, its superior natural exuberance, that was visible beyond the great room, the door that opened onto the courtyard of the convent house. How
waterfalls sparkling young wombs poured on glossy purple marble white linen, on which fingers anxiously concealed thoughts of the thinned plot in lace or intangible drew flowering branches, under the watchful eye and expert patients sisters, but relentless, even in the correct the slightest error of the needle that the young hand, distracted by an emotion of the heart, had led to negligent care.
brunettes, blondes or brown, their heads bowed on linen is raised every now and then with a sudden flash fluffy. Vivid laughing eyes of complicity crisscrossed furtively.
From the large and high windows along flowers in the breeze came the calm voices of passersby.
Sister Elisa, her hands hidden in the folds of the robe, hung ironic and wise in the room.
Now I know that her heart wise, read the restless thoughts that fluttered over the foliage composed of young stitchers.
Now I know that she was a woman!
once lent me a novel pulled down from a shelf in the library for young ladies who was in his studio. I do not remember the title. But sharp is still ahead of me in his cover of canvas ivory decorated with a gilded frame. Sewn pages, scrolling, hold the story 'a chaste love!
was the tacit sympathy of sister Elisa!
the troubles of a teenager dreamy, she certainly felt, could subside in his view of conventional expectations and attractive, as befitted a secular generations of boarders. Today
in that big room in an intimate semi-darkness I enter with the "power" of the mind that, admirably, even now spreading around promising scent of spring!
is this faculty of the mind to renew the eternal season of incandescence of the matter! The season in which the energy that we demand more than ever to escape, of contentment, to find happiness! The time when there were no facts to terms with reality and life offers "indelibata, full!
Sister Elisa had them these accounts, and, Perhaps she, like Virginia Woolf, a woman he knew to leave the poetry of his need to be "five hundred pounds worth of income" and "a room all to himself." And, after all, Sister Elisa that room if it was procured in his own way and make it available to young women for some time that they crossed the threshold of his convent, a little 'college and a bit' school of embroidery.
Recently I finished "A Room of One's Own" by Virginia Woolf .
From the pages of the book has evoked the mind almost to materialize, the room of Sister Elisa . If this has happened to say that that was the only "Room of my own" of my life, although not live there alone, and not to write stories, but to educate embroidery. In the end, however, experience does not seem very different from that of English writers remember from Virginia in his book. Although they did not have "a room all to himself." They wrote stealth "in the living room together." (Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own , trans. By Maria Antonietta Saracino, Einaudi, Torino 1995, p. 137).
not strange coincidence between the embroidery and writing in women's lives.
In the "communal living" most likely, Jane Austen and embroidered watched carefully the surrounding reality and further that captures that essence, laid the needlework and embroidery in his immortal pages with clear writing and smiling.
Looking back with admiration to Jo, the star of "Little Women" by Louisa May Alcott. Jo, perhaps as it was possible to Louisa herself, has in itself an attic where, squatting in front of the treasure chest of memories and hopes, can vent "incandescent mind." Jo is really lucky! She even allowed to stage the plays in the living room she composed, and even manages to earn money with his stories. The novel
Alcott's already in the nineteenth century in America shows that the woman enjoyed a corner all to himself where he could leave "the glowing mind," though his family sailed gold.
Italy in the sixties for most of the women's attic Jo was an impossible dream. Even if they had the privilege of going to school, I was not there that could afford to vent my mind. There were times when it imposed boring treatises on the subject without any care for reflection on experience writing as "ideational" a personal text of search of the form of self-interpretation of the inner and outer world , found, perhaps , also in the invented, but no less true of poetry. And perhaps, for the most part, this is how things are still going to school.
"A Room of One's Own " is a metaracconto where Virginia "incandescent mind" explores women's writing. His searching gaze slides down the rows of books drawn from his library in search of a word light to illuminate the relationship between women and novel authors writing in her care, and even to me. She shows against the harsh judgments of the opposite sex, but not if it be touched. Nor indulge in a partisan and foolish exaltation of women. Neither takes refuge in the justification of the word denied. Invent , however, a sister of Shakespeare "just as eager for adventure, just as full of imagination, equally eager to see the world as it was him." (A Room of One's Own , p. 97).
And this poet, Shakespeare's sister, Virginia imagine a tragic end. Run away to escape the wedding you want for her parents with the son of a wealthy wool merchant, seduced by an actor manager "- who can never measure the fervor and violence of a heart of a poet when it is caught and trapped in a woman's body? - Killed himself, at night in winter, and is buried near a crossroads today where the buses stop near Elephant and Castle. ( A Room of One's Own, p. 99).
Now I wonder if the heartbeat is sexual, whether it is the lighting of the mind at the moment that catches the gleam of some truth. Even Virginia
wondered "if there are two sexes in the mind that correspond to the two sexes of the body, and even if they must unite to achieve the complete satisfaction and happiness." (A Room of One's Own , p.201). And she is still trying to answer me commenting on a thought of Coleridge: "Maybe Coleridge meant when he said just that that the great mind is androgynous . It is when this fusion takes place that the mind is quite fertile and can make use of all his faculties. Perhaps a mind that is entirely male is not able to create, just like a mind that is entirely female, I thought ... He meant, perhaps, that the androgynous mind is resonant and porous; that transmits emotion without difficulty, that is creative by nature incandescent and undivided. " ( A Room of One's Own, p.201).
Glow and completeness! The Creativity is a mind of its undivided !
Almost certainly this idea was inspired by Woolf's novel "Orlando" emblematic of a metaphysical epic androgynous creature who flew across the centuries.
is that of absolute completeness. Men and women touch the real incomplete state and the pursuit of happiness, achieved only, perhaps, in the state of grace of a mind glowing, in which, despite its specific male or female, is the "fusion" that allows to become "fertile" and "make use of all his faculties." One
state of grace that is pure joy, clear eye and smiling in the "deal with reality," alien to that resentment spoken of Virginia and from which few women's works are exempt.
And perhaps the knot painful that women have yet to dissolve is: deal with reality without rancor, and without falling into the trap of the competition to win a race to win a prize.
is necessary to avoid the "temptation" of careers that require the betrayal of the dreams, otherwise the necessary "five hundred pounds" that women have gained not be enough to build a "room of one's self," which is ultimately some space interior from which you can draw the energy for the attention to reality and to overcome its narrow limits. If you want to project to this true liberation, we must come to contemplate "what remains when thrown in the hedge beyond the empty husk of the day" . ( A Room of One's Own, p. 225). Back in the room
Sister Elisa . The nun, inevitably, bears the same name passionate girl who nearly a millennium ago, the convent where she was imprisoned, he wrote letters burning beloved Abelard. Where now the sister , heart wise? Where are all the companions of those hours of attention in the fertile embroidered lace and flowering branches? That period of patient accurately prepared to deal with reality and to revive in them the unknown poet Shakespeare's sister? I think so. And now I feel like beside them.
are women I meet every day which, in concluding his book, Virginia turns saying
"Now it is my firm belief that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried near a road junction is still alive . He lives in you and me, and many other women who are not here tonight because they are putting the kids to bed ... Taking life by the life of all the strangers who had preceded him, as his brother had done before her, she will be born. But you can be born without that preparation, without that effort on the part our own, without the specific belief that once you will be reborn to live and write his poetry is one thing that we can not expect it would be impossible. But I am convinced that she will, if we work for you, and that work well, though in poverty and obscurity, it is certainly worth ". ( A Room of One's Own, p. 231 and 233).
