Federico De Roberto

Federico De Roberto (C.E.1861–1927), Italian writer.

Incipit:
"By the time you read this, I'll be dead. I do not want to, I do not want to go away in silence and shadows, without telling you all that is in my heart, without showing you all the frightful work done by you, without leaving you – the last memory of our tender friendship – the eternal remorse of the evil you have committed?...><. Ah! I had to learn generosity at your school... Listen: my mother sleeps over there, in the adjoining room; She rests for a moment after a day of restlessness, spent spying on my every move, as if foreshadowing the misfortune that hangs over her head. Tomorrow, at this time, she will not rest.

References:
''Era de maggio e te cadeano 'nzino A schiocche a schiocche le cerase rosse....''. The redheads, the sweets, the fresh ciriegie were her lips.... She was right in accusing me of not being jealous; jealousy is a proof of love. I had been jealous in silence, inwardly, for fear of making her angry; I was wrong. Women, sometimes, want to be dominated.
 * We went alone, outside the Cave, to Pozzuoli, to Baja.... What a heaven! What a sea... Do you know the grove behind Lake Lucrino, on the way to the Sibyl's cave? The land is sloping; You proceed at random, pushing aside the branches that touch your face. Through the foliage of the chestnut grove filters a fantastic, féerie-like green light; It seems to swim in the middle of the fluid emerald.... On May 20th...
 * letters anonymous are a providence. In view of fundamental human cowardice, it is providential that one can make one thing known or give advice without risking anything.
 * Don't you know what kind of love I love? I love as the sea loves the shore: softly and furiously!
 * Think that love, hatred, ambition, envy, all the strongest passions end before us, and that, when all is over, one thing remains: the satisfaction of the duty accomplished....
 * When I saw many women gathered in some place, at the theatre, for example, or at the walk, I wondered; "Who would you love?" – And with one hand on my conscience, I answered, "All of them, except the old ones, the hunchbacks and the ugly ones."
 * If you want to succeed with women, don't make them laugh.

Incipit:
Joseph, in front of the door, was playing with his child, cradling him in his arms, showing him the marble shield fixed to the top of the arch, the rack nailed to the wall of the vestibule where, in ancient times, the prince's lances hung their halberds, when the noise of a carriage coming at full speed was heard and grew rapidly; and before he had time to turn round, a little stick on which it seemed to have snowed, with so much dust, and whose horse was all foaming with sweat, entered the court with a deafening crash. From the arch of the second courtyard came servants and familiars: Baldassarre, the master of the house, opened the window of the loggia on the second floor, while Salvatore Cerra fell from the wheelchair with a letter in his hand.

"Don Salvatore?... What is it?... What's new?..."

But he made a desperate gesture with his arm and climbed the stairs four by four.

Joseph, with the child still in his arms, had been stunned, not understanding; but his wife, Belshazzar's wife, the washerwoman, a number of other servants were already encircling the carriage, and were watching the coachman say, interruptedly:

"The princess... Dead all of a sudden... This morning, while I was washing the carriage..."

"Jesus... Jesus..."

References:
"See? Do you see how much they respect their uncle? How is the whole country to him?" The boy, stunned a little by the noise, asked, " What do you mean deputy?" "Deputies," explained his father, "are the ones who make the laws in Parliament." "Doesn't the King do them?" "The King and the deputies together. Can the King take care of everything? And do you see how the uncle does honor to the family? When there were Viceroys, ours were Viceroys; now that we have Parliament, my uncle is a Member of Parliament..." (1995, p. 180) "I remember that in 1861, when my uncle the Duke was first elected a deputy, my father said to me, 'See? When there were Viceroys, the Uzedas were Viceroys; now that we have the deputies, the uncle sits in Parliament.'"
 * «[...] and some well-informed people assured us that once, in the early days of the new government, he [the duke] had uttered a very significant phrase, revealing the ancient viceregal greed, the rapacity of the ancient Uzeda: 'Now that Italy is done, we must mind our own business...'" (Part Two, Chapter VIII)

Quotes:

 * After The Betrothed, the greatest novel in Italian literature. (Leonardo Sciascia)
 * These Viceroys are sculpted and struck one by one: they are arrogant and ignorant, in the past they knew how to sign at most, Donna Ferdinanda holds like a gospel the bolsa prose of the Teatro genologico di Sicilia of Mugnòs, Don Eugenio conceives a Herald Sicolo with ridiculous innovations of spelling and phonetics, Ferdinand then – let alone the Fool! – he is struck by the reading of Robinson Crusoe, which the rhetorical Don Cono Canalà has given him, and the new deputy Duke of Oragua is unable to articulate his motto looking out from the balcony in front of the crowd that cheers him. Only one thing endures, in the collapse of all values and in the universal conflict of interests: the common passion for things, the pride of belonging to a caste and a clan. (Sergio Campailla)

Incipit:
Newspapers live as long as roses: l'espace d'un matin. It is not easy to compare otherwise than for their transience a printed sheet and the most beautiful flower of creation; But, if the flower has innumerable advantages over the newspaper, and not in the eyes of women only, or poets, or lovers, the newspaper also has some advantages over the flower. And this seems evident to me: that, once the hemerocallids are dead, the dried petals end up in the garbage; On the other hand, many things can be done with old papers: even books.

Tolstoism
Mr. Ossip-Lourié has thought of bringing together in a handy little book all the thoughts, sentences and judgments of Leo Tolstoi, drawing them with great patience from his works and grouping them into thirteen paragraphs, in which he discusses life and death, religion and science, patriotism and education, and so on.

Incipit
The succinct critical exposition of Tolstoy's doctrine will not be useless to follow that of another very modern philosophy, much admired or much mocked, without it being well known, by most, what it consists of: I mean the philosophy of Frederick Nietzsche, the Gospel of Zarathustra, the prophecy of the Superman. This will be all the less inopportune because Nietzsche's ideas are diametrically opposed to those of Tolstoy, and represent, as they say, the other side of the coin.

Incipit
That Sully Prudhomme is a brilliant artist, a very delicate poet, is known by those who have heard, with or without music, his famous Vase brisé. That he is a highly cultured thinker, a keen philosopher, is known to those who have compelled his ponderous volume on Expression in the Fine Arts. He did not, however, wish to keep his different faculties separate, contenting himself with writing now inspired verses and now rigorous reasoning; he also composed poems entitled The Destinies, Justice and Happiness with the heart of a poet and the mind of a philosopher. This part of his work is the most noteworthy, because it refers to one of the most singular problems of our time.

Incipit
When the art of Charles Baudelaire was said, even before the Nordau, dark and immoral, a powerful voice arose to defend it: the voice of Victor Hugo. The great poet affirmed that the author of the Fleurs du mal had enriched the field of artistic emotion of a frisson nouveau. Undoubtedly, the same can be said of Maurice Maeterlinck, his verses and his dramas. And if the symbols within which he has enclosed his thought are not intelligible to most people, if the poet's admirers want to understand all his philosophy, here it is explained in his new book: La Sagesse et la Destinée.

Incipit
Three centuries ago, in 1595, in Wittenberg, fifty theses were publicly defended to prove that woman is not a human creature. Today, 50,000 theses, dissertations, conferences, volumes and newspaper articles attribute to the female sex not only the dignity that is proper to it, but also those that do not suit it. This propaganda is one of the peculiar signs of the present age: as such it deserves to hold our attention.

Incipit
Until a few years ago, when sociologists in the mood for prophecy were asking themselves the question of the end of our civilization,—for civilizations flourish and end like all other things in this world,—sociologists, I say, thought that our civilization would succumb to a new great barbarian invasion, and they saw the Chinese as the formidable enemy.

References:

 * We must do to others what we would have them do to us.

Winners and losers:
The war between Spain and the United States of America has revealed many things which it was not difficult to foresee, but which have nevertheless aroused some astonishment in more than one.

Incipit:
"To that greatest of human intellects, Paolo Sarpi, the extraordinary ingenuity reasonably seemed a very ready passivity to receive and reproduce in itself even the slightest impressions of objects either sensible or intelligible, and therefore nothing more than an extraordinary and badly envied disease, which modern physiologists in modern language would call slow encephalitis." These lines by Pietro Giordani could find a place in the Precursors of Lombroso by Dr. Antonini. Where the prose writer from Piacenza diagnosed a slow encephalitis, contemporary philosophers see, with the author of the Man of Genius, a neurosis, a psychosis, a form of epilepsy.

References:
Some, however, oppose Lombroso's theory because they fear precisely that it is directed, or may lead, to the compression, to the depressing of the feelings of admiration which genius excites in mediocre and lowly humanity, and to diminish its social importance.
 * Max Nordau was such a fervent follower of Lombroso, that he extended the theory beyond the master's intentions, to the point of considering most of the artistic geniuses universally admired in our day as the product of degeneration.
 * Praise tickles, and carelessness humbles. Is this a pathological symptom, or is it not rather the natural play of the passions, the eternal law of human nature?

Criticism and creation:
An enemy of art, Max Nordau is not content to be a critic, a sociologist, a philosopher, a polemicist; He is also an artist. The case is all the more remarkable than it did not appear at first. It is not worth mentioning his former novels; instead, we must read the last one, the one he published after the Degeneration and the Psycho-physiology of Genius, that is, after the books where he dealt worst with artists and art itself.

Shyness:
When synonyms are studied, the first and almost classic examples that teachers give are courage and temerity, shyness and fear. Between these movements of the soul there are differences that each of us knows how to evaluate, because we have directly experienced them, within ourselves. Children, if we could not enter a dark room at night, we were afraid; If, on the other hand, knowing very well our lesson, we were embarrassed by the presence of the inspector at the school, we were shy. Over the years, if the fear ceases—or rather changes its object; because the best of them know, in the face of certain spectacles or certain ideas, the cold sweats—shyness too often jams those who seem most sure of themselves.

The Will:'
In truth, this century, if it were not the century of science, would be the century of criticism. The favorite occupation, not only of the crowd incapable of doing anything else, but also of enlightened people, is to criticize men and things. Certainly, the phenomenon can be explained by the great ease of criticism compared to the difficulty of creation; But since it, although very ancient, has nevertheless become so much worse in our day, it is necessary to see if there is not another reason, present, current, which explains the recrudescence.

Incipit:
When Ranaldi looked out from the parapet of the tribune, leaning his right hand armed with a telescope, the hall was depopulated. Two o'clock struck, and having climbed the stairs more than quickly, the young man gasped for fear of losing the beginning of the show. He was also a little confused and intimidated. The bersagliere on guard, at the door; further up, on the first floor, the usher who had warned him that he must ski the club; the other usher who, even higher up, in the room already populated by vociferous journalists, had asked him to show his card, almost suspecting an intruder in him; That apparatus, that diffidence, the unfamiliar faces, the ignorance of the way, the mistake of having entered the telegraph room before taking the last stretch of stairs, had awkwardly and almost frightened him.

References:
Who says that the goods promised by the socialists will, if obtained, be so valued that they will never again be put at risk? Religious tradition says that man was created in the earthly paradise; He could have enjoyed it quietly, but he did so much that he lost it. The paradise they promise us will be lost once again, unless the socialists have the secret of taking away our taste for the apple. "Who told you that I'm not socialist too?" "Like every person of heart, yes; And that is precisely what it is all about: to tell the people to what extent it is right and holy to speak to them of their rights, but how necessary and proper it is to remind them also of their duties." What moves the worker to declare himself discontented is the hope of the best; he hopes to work less and less and to enjoy more and more: this is the formula of the prophecy socialist: the maximum of goods with the minimum of effort; A formula against which reason, logic, and the laws of the organic and physical world protest, where the effects are always strictly proportioned to the causes. Why is it that his father, a servant of the brave monarchy, still spoke respectfully of vile tyrants? Of the constitutional order, the young man had heard the perfection explained: King and People participating in the government, the former with the ministers, the latter with the deputies; the Senate appointed as the moderator of the elective Chamber; the free and independent judiciary between the legislative and the executive—what could his father oppose to this perfection? He must have felt a more serious and painful astonishment when he heard his family affirm that, without treason, neither a thousand nor ten thousand Garibaldians could have overthrown a kingdom like that of Francis II! With this system of discouraging those who defend it, of caressing its worst enemies, the Monarchy runs straight to the precipice, and I remain at my post, and will remain there perhaps to the last for this reason also: so as not to seem to think of saving myself, having sniffed the corpse. But if they're waiting for me to want to break my horns again for their pretty eyes, they'll stay cool. Wherever they are, there are differences of opinion, disparities of feelings, differences of moods, such and so many variations, temporary or permanent, that perfect consent is impossible, I do not say among all or among many, but between a few, between two. The serious Socialism disavows those novelists of vivid imagination who have represented in their own way the life to come, but if the thinkers do not tell us what it will be, what is the reality they want to realize, we must also, in order to have an idea of it, accept the image that the novelists give of it. Under the socialist system, each citizen will work not on his own account, but on behalf of the whole consortium, and will receive in return for his work a cheque so large that it will not be possible to spend it all. If this is the only difficulty in the future state, we can say that everything will go smoothly: the amount to be spent, the way in which it is spent, will be an insoluble problem. Monsieur de Voltaire, to a hairdresser who gave him advice on the art of poetry, replied: "Master Andrew, make wigs..." I ask myself if the great French writer would not have been more prudent by advising Master Andrea to study prosody! The killing of a man is justly condemned as the most heinous crime, because by the death given to a fellow-man, the murderer obtains an advantage for his own life. "Is she alone, alone? And how did he do it? Sponte or pushes? With victories, or by dint of defeats? And what is this Italy of his? Where is the glory, the laurel and the iron that your Leopardi was looking for sixty years ago? Do you know about it? We are the last of the great nations, an inflated frog on the verge of cracking, like the one in the fairy tale. Theoretically, philosophically, you will not tell me that the reign of one man over all his fellows is the ideal. The ideal, if you are an idealist, is quite the opposite, it is the social republic, equality and the agreement of all. Utopia is fine, and even those who support it know it; but a generous utopia, not unpleasant resignation, like ours. Generous and dangerous, you mean? Go there, for the world has not fallen and will not fall, no matter how many reforms and revolutions are made..." The form of society endures for the very simple reason that most men, if they conceive the ideal, obey the dictates of reason. The ideal is so called because it is not actualized and not feasible; The day it were to be implemented would no longer be the ideal, but the real. This is not metaphysics: it is practical philosophy, because it teaches us to beware of the flights of Icarus. The wisdom expressed by mankind in age-old experience repeats to young people that youth, health, and pleasures are all fallacious and fleeting goods. It recommends, however, moral rewards, and promises future rewards that are no less chimerical. Then why not tell that young lady that the outward forms she admired, and her own life, were nothing but the products of the evil principle? Why not open her eyes to the truth, if she seemed so clever and so sensitive?... He wouldn't understand her. Discouragement is for pessimists, fatalists, faintheartedness. Those who have no fiber, those who have no faith, those who do not see beyond themselves, those who do not think that if the fruit of their work ripens too late for them to taste it, their children, future generations, will taste it. Or why must I work zealously produce much, if those who produce less than I, through real inability or laziness, share exactly as I do in the enjoyment of goods? Isn't it better to take things more slowly, to rest often and for a long time?... «An arduous undertaking. They will be able to federate; if so!" Why is it said that the most violent revolutionaries become the most rigid tyrants? Between a revolutionary and an authoritarian who seem to be two absolutely different men, incapable of ever being able to understand each other, the difference must not be very great, if the one is capable of changing into the other and the other into the one. Convenience, usefulness, advantage, may suggest to each one a certain profession of faith, interested, and therefore liable to be cancelled when the advantage fails, but who can boast of being entirely disinterested? The quality of interest changes: material or moral, direct or indirect, present or future, real or imaginary; but always, among all the opinions that clash within us and that we all recognize as true, we express some for a special reason... To preach death to men, by word or example, has been, and always will be, in vain. One can recognize evil, but it is so much that it does not allow itself to be overcome. Indian sages have preached abstinence and extolled Nirvana. The bravest revealer of pain and evil has conceived the suicide of the Earth; With what effect? Where are the works, the actions, the attempts, a principle of execution? If death is the necessary end of life, all wisdom consists in hastening its attainment.
 * The utopians want all men to be equally rich or well-off, this equality in wealth or comfort, is the promise with which they entice the workers; For if the workers knew that the result of the agitation would be, as we have seen, universal poverty and mediocrity, they would not listen to them.
 * The Country? With a big P? Do you still believe it? My dear, if you say, who it is, where it is, what it does, where it can be found, I will be grateful. The country is you and I, and the usher who stands in the anteroom, and the young lady who copies letters from there. The country is everyone, which means no one. And our ideas are just as good as those of our adversaries.
 * Thought is like the Protheus of the fable, which changes its aspect incessantly, or rather, since there is not a single and fixed thought, but an infinite series of thoughts, inconstant, contradictory, no one can with one word define a man exactly; No man can define himself exactly.
 * Progress is the synthesis of all human history; Those who have leafed through its immortal books have read this word on every page.
 * The nobility and wealth that one acquires by one's own work no one hates them, because everyone hopes for them...
 * "The Monarchy made Italy."
 * Wealth, absolute or relative, cannot belong to everyone; it is impossible for those who take part in the game of life to win all, and for the winnings to be equal; The gamblers know this, but before the cards are dealt, before the die is cast, they are all equally animated and comforted by hope, and the loser, if he feels a human sense of spite, nevertheless accepts the necessity of fate, and awaits revenge.
 * Today, say the socialists, those who work from morning to night struggle for life, while those who do nothing swim in plenty; Tomorrow those who produce little as well as those who produce much will swim in abundance: injustice for injustice's sake, who will not prefer the latter to the former?
 * "Now that [[Italy] is done, Italian kitchens should be unified!"
 * According to Spencer, words are like tokens: the value of these and the meaning of those depend on the general convention.
 * If Massimo Taparelli D'Azeglio, after having cried out: Out with the foreigner, was seized with the doubt of whether he was a foreigner, the Prince of Francalanza was exempt from such scruples.
 * «Ladies and gentlemen, once upon a time there was a critic who, affirming with extraordinary warmth the superiority of Lodovico Ariosto, engaged in many quarrels with people who did not think as he did, and thus sustained one after the other no less than fourteen fortunate duels; but on the fifteenth, he fell at last with his chest pierced by the enemy's blade. Then the godfathers, who were very afflicted and were waiting to collect his last wishes, heard him come out in this supreme confession: "And to say that I have not yet read either Orlando furioso or Gerusalemme liberata...."

At the roar of the cannon:
The Kingdom of Italy is therefore at war to the bitter end against the Austrian Empire: from the Adige to the Isonzo, from the peaks of the Tridentine Pre-Alps to the ravines of the Karst, the bombardment is raging, the battle is raging.

Catania:'
The event dates back, they assure, to the time of Noah, and in proof they give the names of two districts: Mecca and Zalisa, which would be those of Lamech, father of the great oenologist patriarch, and of Elisa, granddaughter of the latter and therefore great-granddaughter of the former. Those who were vague about similar and even more bizarre etymological interpretations would find, in certain books, plenty of them; but what seems credible is only this: that the Chalcidians who came to found Naxos under Taormina, in 758 B.C., and advanced six or eight years later, under the guidance of Evarcus, to the southern slopes of Etna, did not found Catania, but simply put their colony in the city, the origin of which is lost in the mists of time. one reads from ancient writers that in a very remote age the earthquakes of Etna caused the collapse of "the boreal walls with the towers, the first work of the Cyclops"

Ermanno Raeli:
That evening, as on all occasions when no layman came to disturb the free course of our grandiose phantasmagorias, the discussion had ended up revolving around the problem of destiny, the mysterious power which regulates human actions and which, attracting us with magnificent flattery, plunges us into the deepest and most incurable misery. Everyone agreed that happiness was a chimera; However, while some maintained that pain is a fatal condition of existence; That no matter what men do, it is at the end of everything, and someone else said that if we are not satisfied, it is almost always because we seek our satisfaction where we cannot find it. Then the memory of a tragic story was evoked in support of the latter thesis, according to which happiness is relatively impossible, as a result of a mistake of direction, and not in a desperately absolute sense. But, since error is universal and eternal; Since, once the existence of happiness is admitted, all pursue it in ways that depart from it, it could not be that the two apparently distinct theses were merged into one, and that it was a very small comfort to come from faith in something that no one attains?...

Loves:
Countess very kind and furious friend, ''Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!'' ... Will it not be enough to beat one's chest, to humbly accuse oneself, to beg forgiveness? She says no? My fault is just unforgivable?... Come on, at least let me hope.

Art:
The people who could best think about art seem to be artists. An exquisite artist, a delicate poet like Sully Prudhomme, who possesses, with his artistic faculties, a solid literary and, more importantly, scientific culture, has given us the book of Expression in the Fine Arts, which is among the most thoughtful and ponderous to appear in recent years. Although the title speaks only of expression, many other problems of aesthetics are included in this one that the author proposes to solve. The first of all is, without a doubt, the one concerning the nature of art, or rather the relationship between art and nature.

The Illusion:'
"Grandpa! Grandpa... Comes!... Here it is..."

Leaving the window in a hurry, she began to run, together with Lauretta, through the house; He shouted behind the door of his mother's room, "He's here... It's here..." he ran to call the servants: "Stefana... Camilla!... And he went back to the antechamber and slit his throat: "Grandpa... Grandfather!... Here we go, Grandpa..."

Her grandfather, followed by the porter and the porter with the suitcases, was halfway up the stairs when she came in front of her. Hugging her and kissing her on both cheeks, she exclaimed, "Therese... How are you? How's Mommy?"

"Well, Grandma... Everyone is fine... Lauretta too... Where did she get herself into?... To': there it is..."

The Wedding Mass:
At three o'clock, when the bell announced the end of the lesson, Professor Dominic Perez did not let his disciples go free, as he should have. He had been explaining an act of Oedipus Rex for two hours and did not want to interrupt it. Controlling the impatience of the class with his firm and stern voice, he went on for another ten minutes, to the end; Then he pronounced the sacramental phrase:

– Enough for today.

As soon as he went out into the corridor, in the company of the most diligent pupils who were still asking him questions about the things he had heard, he saw Baldassare, the janitor, accosted by Baldassare.

"Mr. Professor, there is a gentleman waiting for you.

The Death of Love:
The sunset of a dark November day, with the sky covered with tedious haze through which the last light filtered livid and sad; the agony of the day and of the year, a sense of cold in all things, in the silent and deserted countryside, in the trees with pruned branches, in the sea of a metallic gray scourged by the wind, in the hearts of men who had seen all their illusions fall one by one... "Think," said Ludwig, "of the springs to come?... How many new souls will rejoice! How many hopes will blossom in virgin fantasies? How many lives will ever open to the smiles of the sun!

Fear:
In the horror of war, the horror of nature: the desolation of Valgrebbana, the iron scales of Montemolon, the cuti of the two Grise, the gallows of Palalto and Palbasso, the precipices of Fòlpola: a fantastic town, a romantic Sabbath scenario, the gate of Hell.

Fate:
The princess of Roccasciano, sunk into the great red velvet armchair, with a shawl wrapped around her gaunt breast and a blanket over her legs, after slowly shuffling the cards, placed the deck on the table with the green carpet for the knight Fornari to cut it, and began the usual little game again with an exclamation of deep distrust.

Leopardi:'
An eight-year-old boy, to amuse his little brothers, Giacomo Leopardi invented fairy tales and novellas, some of which lasted several days as novels; One especially, full of strange and fantastic adventures improvised according to the action as the action was unfolding, lasted several weeks.

The Rosary:
A light blow of the hammer at the garden door: so light that it could only be heard by the women who were waiting behind. -Who is it? - I, Angela... Opened.

The Conference:
- Cheers! And the woman, raising her full glass, emptied it in one breath. Michele Cardullo did not answer. He wiped his pipe with the sharp-bladed pocket knife, and now and then raised his eyes, turning a glance around the courtyard of the inn, where a crowd of onlookers, around the players of boccie [sic], were intent on blows.

The Old Guys:
They were seated on the yellow-and-red-striped bench, under the bare plane trees, and the garden avenue stretched out before them, flooded by the sun, between two rows of statues on the bases of which the ivy clung. In the background, the mountain is all white with snow, like a sugar bell.

Housewife:
In the night, the wheelchair came to a stop in front of the Police Headquarters. The guard called to the stairway: -Discovery! -Come! The brigadier, while Trovato was finishing passing his clothes half bourgeois, half a worker's, in a corner of the dormitory, by the light of a candle butt, repeated to him: - Get someone else... It's a delicate operation, you may need help... "Brigadier, don't even say that," replied Trovato, tying a green tie.

Turtleneck:
- The son of the She-Wolf! Seeing him pass, the muleteers gathered in the tavern of Mazzaglia, under the pergola, called him with one voice: "Lupetto... Turtleneck... Come here a little!" and they began to scramble him, throwing down his cap with a slap on the head, pretending to give him a piece of bread: "To', take it..." and stuffing it into his pocket instead; Turning the dog against him, and kicking him, as he turned to defend himself from the beast.

Spasm:
Anyone who spent the autumn of 1894 on Lake Geneva still remembers without doubt the tragic case of Ouchy, which made such an impression and gave such long nourishment to curiosity not only among the colony of holidaymakers scattered throughout the resorts of the lake, but also among the great cosmopolitan public to whom the newspapers reported it.

Quotes about Federico De Roberto:

 * The intelligence and passion that consume the characters to the point of stripping them of their flesh (the only one that can be concretely represented is the enormous and violent Don Blasco of the Viceroys) are the two poles between which the style also moves. Intellectualism, on the other hand, means that the author and the characters always have a certain understanding for the ideas of others that makes them descend without realizing the slope of transformism, which ends up becoming an indispensable feature of politics and definitively expels its morality, which in its impotence reaffirms the verdict on the world. (Caesar Cases)
 * Realist or psychologist? { {sic|Federigo de}} Roberto, a shrewd investigator of spiritual impulses as well as of aesthetic attitudes, can justly boast of having driven to despair those very numerous colleagues of his who esteem the classification of every writer within the strict limits of a formula as the chief aim of criticism. And easy critics, disposed to be content and take advantage of appearances, might believe that he had deliberately sought to elude such a classification—which, moreover, very often resembles a captivity [sic]—by the constant simultaneous multiplicity of manifestations to which he has gradually bent his genius. Realist or psychologist? (Luigi Federzoni)

Bibliography:

 * Federico de Roberto, Al rombo del cannone, Treves, C.E.1919.
 * Federico de Roberto, Catania, Italian Institute of Graphic Arts, C.E.1907.
 * Federico de Roberto, Documenti umani, Fratelli Treves Editori, Milan, C.E.1888.
 * Federico de Roberto, Ermanno Raeli, Libreria ed. Galli, Milan, C.E.1889.
 * Federico de Roberto, Gli amori, Galli, C.E.1898.
 * Federico de Roberto, I Viceré, Garzanti, Milano, C.E.1959.
 * Federico de Roberto, I Viceré, preface by Sergio Campailla, BEN, C.E.1995.
 * Federico de Roberto, Il colore del tempo, R. Sandron, Milano-Palermo, C.E.1900.
 * Federico de Roberto, L'arte, Fratelli Bocca, C.E.1901.
 * Federico de Roberto, L'Imperio, Oscar Mondadori, Milan C.E.1981.
 * Federico de Roberto, La morte dell'amore, publisher Maia, Milan, C.E.1928.
 * Federico de Roberto, La paura, in Romanzi, novelle e saggi, edited by Carlo A. Madrignani, Collezione I Meridiani, IV edizione, Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, Milan, C.E.1998. ISBN 88-04-21998-2
 * Federico de Roberto, La sorte, Libreria editrice Galli, C.E.1891.
 * Federico de Roberto, Leopardi, Treves, 1921.
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 * Federico de Roberto, Spasimo, Galli Publishing House, C.E.1897.