Stefano Pietrosanti

on translating Pier Paolo Pasolini

This piece by Pier Paolo Pasolini is meant as a dialogical testament, written in Friuli’s dialect and Italian both. It addresses a young fascist of the seventies, who may have appeared as the “natural enemy” of a gay and — at least nominally — communist poet. The poem asks this young fascist to undertake a deeper reactionary/conservative mission than fascism. To “defend, conserve, pray.” For — as far as my interpretation can go — the young fascist shares the distaste of modernity of Pasolini, and so may better understand the poet’s message than the leftist (and modernity enthusiast) youth.

In my translation I have tried to be as literal as possible and, when English words fell short, I choose to use the dialect version’s words. This happened only twice, with the name of Friuli’s dialect, Furlàn, instead of “friulano”; and with the name of the Italian alpine infantry regiment, alpìn, instead of “alpino.” Furthermore, I decided not to translate a brief Latin phrase that appears in the text: hic desinit cantus, which roughly translates to “here the song ends.” I here present my English translation, and the original text, in dialect and Italian both.

I am neither an Italian literature scholar, nor a particular expert in Pasolini’s work. What I write, I write as a person who loves to read and to think about what he reads. Who is fascinated by the different directions where his readings, interacting with reality, bring him to. I claim no authority. I choose this piece because I find in it the perfect summary of what puzzles me in Western conservatism.

To use the words of another great reactionary, Nicolás Gómez Dávila, I feel that conservatism shall be summed up as the “slow and steadfast pace of the soul.” A slow and steadfast pace that may come — I believe — only from some sort of inner tranquillity, of peace with reality. Though, most of Western conservatism, being at odds with modernity, directs its “love of vineyards” out of this world, soiling it with spitefulness. If conservatism grows out of rejection, how does it differ from revolution? Extreme regress is very similar to extreme progress, at the end, and neither of them go with inner tranquillity.

So here it is, this poem is perfect in pointing to a sentiment that I believe we should direct on other objects. The day we will feel the love of vineyards for the airports connecting our vast world; the day skyscrapers will have in our eyes a bit of the enchantment of castles; the day we will notice that we live in the new Ancien Régime, and that the duty to protect it is on us. That day an healthy conservatism will be born. I would love to be there when we will feel so, and I would love to read the poetry we would thus write.