Small Narratives
Anna Ferrari
Cell.: 3492921690
Mail to: [email protected]
Via della Pace, 90 – 20025 Legnano (MI)
To Fausto
Him.
Who that cares much to know the history of man, and how the mysterious mixture behaves under the varying experiments of Time, has not dwelt, at least briefly, on the life of Saint Theresa[…]
That Spanish woman who lived three hundred years ago, was certainly not the last of her kind. Many Theresas have been born who found for themselves no epic life wherein there was a constant unfolding of far-resonant action; perhaps only a life of mistakes, the offspring of a certain spiritual grandeur ill-matched with the meanness of opportunity; perhaps a tragic failure which found no sacred poet and sank unwept into oblivion. […]
Some have felt that these blundering lives are due to the inconvenient indefiniteness with which the Supreme Power has fashioned the natures of women […] Here and there is born a Saint Theresa, foundress of nothing, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness tremble off and are dispersed among hindrances, instead of centring in some long-recognizable deed.
(Middlemarch, George Eliot)
Preface
I am particularly fond of the incipit of Middlemarch, the novel written in the mid-nineteenth century by the English writer George Eliot, a courageous woman for her time, who however chose a male pseudonym instead of her real name, Mary Anne Evans, to publish. These words of her fill me with the hope that there is a place for me too among those who, although humble, have been remembered, and that is why I have chosen them.
Memory is a constant thought, remembering, which for me means “keeping alive”: as long as I remember and I tell those who come after me, then the past will not dissipate, but will be fertile sap and constant companion.
In the same way I long to be someone's memory, out of fear of death, or out of a desire for immortality, which are the same thing.
In this, however, a further feeling participates: affection, I love who I keep in my memories, and I hope to be loved among the memories of others.
This affection, closeness, empathy with others is a deep need, so much so that I happen to feel my spirit joining the person, or being for whom I am feeling true love. It is a way to “touch the soul”, I say, and the sensation if of infinity, of joy and pain at the same time, because we are aware that we are not given to go further, we cannot remain in that condition, it is destined to end, momentarily or forever.
I think this is the main reason for my writing: to tell to exist and to remember and to be remembered. When an idea or a thought comes to mind, I have to put it on paper, for fear of losing it, and until I do it, I am obsessed with it.
My writing is very varied, it can have a great breadth, or be exhausted in a short story, inform through articles, or turn to intimacy when it is a diary.
Small narratives are seven short stories born spontaneously, of different genres, although there is a prevalence of the fantastic or rather the fantastic-real, as I like to call it.
That is, the narrative moves in reality, but at the same time reality is inhabited by fantastic characters and events. The narrative model could be Frankestein, or the Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley, which contemplates the existence of an imaginary monster in everyday life, which moves between human beings perfectly rooted in concreteness.
Therefore, the collection opens with Black and White, which portrays two domestic animals seen in their natural component, but also conceived in possession of human qualities, without ever being reduced to cartoons, indeed, in Black and White fully preserve their instict.
I am very fond of my pets and often delight in watching them play, or I am amazed when they react intelligently, or they show that they remember, and also they understand, language. If I could, I would live in a countryside, in a large estate with several animals. In their company I am serene, at ease, and many times I would like to smell them, so sincere. We should learn from them to be better and more authentic.
Free will, Macbeth: story of a madman and What must happens, happens are truly fantastic short stories, and deal with the theme of evil in the world, unscrupulous ambition and the impossibility of controlling the mind.
Macbeth, which also preserves the names of the characters from the play of the same name, is slightly inspired by the Shakespearean tragedy, but only as regards the leitmotif: ambition that destroys the dignity of man.
In The 11th commandment: do not judge I am confronted with the problem of how to make ourselves truly known by others, and how difficult it is to explain ourselves and make ourselves seen for what we are, often also because others do not see or do not want to see. The nun, protagonist of the short story, even loses the sense of herself when her actions are completely distorted.
A mother is set at school, and deals with the opposite theme: how it happens that love leads people to reveal themselves more than they would like, and therefore they abandon their roles to be just naked individuals with feelings, concerns, desires.
These short stories are really “small narratives”, in the sense that they even seem to be told in the whisper, intended for those who want to listen, to rely on that irrational part that can be very scary, but which is very rich in suggestions.
It is precisely the irrational that has guided my hand, as if it were the prevailing faculty of ourselves, so it takes so much effort to keep it at bay with common sense, reasoning, civilization.
I believe that irrationality is very important to live a complete life, which must be cultivated in the same way as our conscience. A very popular topic today is mindfulness, that is the capacity for maximum concentration of our being on the present, free from any judgment, to bring everything to consciousness. Not an easy goal, which can also be reached with meditation.
Both have irrational components that are fundamental for their full realization.
I rely on this irrational when I do not understand, when I do not find justifications, remembering the negative capability, the “negative capability” of the English poet John Keats, that is the ability to remain in doubt without necessarily asking why.
There is a bit of all this in these short stories, so, to those who ask, there is certainly a bit of myself, of course, to build a novel, a short story is to create something new, almost, yes we could say, a new life, it is therefore normal that even a little of our blood flows in our narratives.
I wish all readers to have a pleasant time with Small Narratives, and I would be happy if they would like to interact with me (useful addresses are found at the end of the book).
Now, in conclusion, I give the floor to the real protagonists of the book, the short stories, and I am sure they will be able to tell you more and better that what I did.
A.F.
Black & White
Black as usual is lying on her stuffed donut, her front legs fully extended and her head dangling off the edge; White is lying on the sofa on his stomach, with his cock on display, pride of his prowess as a “whole” male and because of his aggression against other alpha dogs.
They sleep soundly, every now and then Black's tail makes a slow waving movement, and she mumbles almost silently, as if she were dreaming, perhaps a mouse, or a small bird, or other cats whose existence it is unlikely to know.
White dreams too. He turns on his side and rolls his paws as if he were running, whimpers several times, wags his tail. I am more sure of his vision, considering his conformation: they are hares, his favorite prey and his worry, since he never manages