A book review by Giancarlo Pirrone
I might not be able to do justice to the serendipitous nature of an encounter with an inspiring book and an outstanding Italian writer. I rarely write book reviews –I’d rather keep the secret for myself, as I have for past precious gems like Ciao America– but this book lands on Ciancia’s lap by more than mere providence: the author and the original script are (in) Italian, the book is about the lost character of the South of the US, the narration regards what happens when one decides to get off the rat race and wander off the beaten path. When this is accomplished with ample grace and beauty, my attention level raises to a book-alert.
In this case, the author found Ciancia through a series of sideway connections to Savannah, his beloved city. Much to my surprise, after a friendly exchange of messages, I received two complimentary copies of the book, one in Italian, one in English. But thirty years of English readings in this country made me decide to try the English version, fully aware that translators often miss the subtleties of the original version. Allow me to advance the results: I was kidnapped by the narration; the Italian book remained poised on the side – I never opened it. Unexpectedly for a translation, Whispering Tides appears as to have been written in English first –so outstanding, it appears as to have been imagined in English. The subject’s core –a physical and mental trip through the magic world of the South of the US – requires knowledge, expressions and idioms that only Southerners know. Well, it’s all there, folks, and I am not going to spoil your reading experience by telling you anything about the plot.
I have read a considerable amount of work about the South, and these are, in my opinion, the most sensitive, profound, descriptive and spot-on pages I have ever read about Savannah – so profound that I am going to take the license to veer off the narration and get to the heart and relevance of their descriptive nature.
To those who live in this large metropolis, Atlantans of a certain age may feel entitled to speak about “the spirit of the South”, as opposed to, say, the rapid pulse of the North. They do so, even though they may bear faint memories of what the Southern lifestyle, customs and feel of the Southern regions used to be before Caligula went through it with its box of matches. Furthermore, having such Southern spirit altogether disappeared from Atlanta, we (endlessly curious moderns, in search for clues) find ourselves at a loss. We live a city life, self-absorbed, work-centered, enveloped by traffic, yielding not just to rude and irrational drivers, but to the wasteful and drifting management of the current City Government, hardly getting out of the metro area, and if so, only by airplane, escaping Georgia toward remote destinations –thereby entirely bypassing the South as some kind of an exhausted land that has little else to offer. Wrong!
Most of us have drawn such a conclusion without having been even once to Augusta, Macon, the coast islands, the Okefenokee Swamp Park and, let alone, the gorgeous Savannah. Yet, this book made me daydream of Georgia, particularly Atlanta, the way it must have been before an unforgiving, shallow and zealous general burned it to the ground. As it turns out, fire is not a lesson to anyone; it leaves behind ashes, and, in my opinion, the “resurgens phoenix”, with all its pretense and ambitions, is but a pale version of what she used to be in the past.
In its heydays, Atlanta was the place to come from the Plantation and showoff on a Sunday afternoon with an embroidered dress and a new hat, stroll up and down Peachtree Road on foot or with one’s carriage, waiving to the numerous folks who were sipping sun-brewed tea on their front porch. It was a place of poise, good manners and open socialization. Most folks who were living in Georgia’s countryside met in this manner. It must be noticed that, in recent years, young African-Americans have tried to take possession and revamp that Peachtree-corridor tradition, with modern sleek motorized carriages and far more horses under the hood than ever before. Needless to say, “white folks” didn’t like it one bit and, by city ordinance, the colorful crowd was immediately shut down by some conservative negro-phobic idiots – as if the customarily jam-packed corridor served any purpose but “shopping for the riches.” I hope that this tells you that my strong distaste for Sherman has nothing to do with the noble mission of Abraham Lincoln. As a matter of fact…
Naomi Blackburn, a reviewer of Whispering Tides, noticed that “some (of the) references that Mattioni brings about the historical South remain punctuations without a purpose – indeed, (are) a missed chance to indicate the incivility by which Sherman dismisses the entire South in one lump, and is canonically portrayed as the liberator from slavery.”
This may explain why criticizing Sherman’s nature as a coarse executor, as a Caligula of history, may be framed as “politically incorrect”, whereas his profound ignorance about the South is so blatant that it has nothing to do with his mandate – the abolition of slavery – against which no one with a brain and a heart would ever argue. I was born politically incorrect, don’t fear crucifixion, and I dare saying that, after winning most battles hands-down, Sherman could have made a far deeper impact in the South, if he showed any form of grace or mercy. It’s like asking a baseball fan who is Mark Twain. Yet the message he carried was clear. So, what was the fire all about? Pyromania? This is the reason why there is still resentment in the South, and why the “yankees” are still guarded with suspicion in these regions. There is still uncontrollable laughter at the movie theatres when, at the annual show of “Gone with the Wind” a character during the shelling of Atlanta says about them Yankees “how in hell they made it down here?” It is comprehensible therefore why Mr. Mattioni would not seek controversy in this sensible matter. It might have been a prudent move on his side.
But this wasn’t the first time I dreamt of that era of white-linen dresses, horses and carriages. Even if I never lived in that time, on a hot day, I miss the smell of a mint Julep – a perfect mix of mint leaves and bourbon. Served cold, it will knock your knees out of service or, it depends, it will make you talk silly and forget about all your troubles… which from time to time everyone needs to do anyway. But not knowing these things is none of our fault folks, as Atlanta has long lost those qualities, which used to qualify it as a city of Southern spirit and warm hospitality. Ironically, Atlanta chose to emphasize its racial division – rather than its possibility of integration. It still does. In the process, it killed its own history, both spiritually and architecturally. This is the fault of ignorance of the new generations of managers, majors and governors, the result of not knowing or even caring –for that matter – about what was there before us. Some don’t speak English, or have ever read a book, but that’s another incorrect thing to say. My recommendation, today, is simple: reading books attempts to reverse this atrocious oversight. One day, knowledge may re-implant itself in the South and will lead it back to recapture its lost traditions.
Surprisingly, for the recent election of ignorance, that Southern spirit is far from lost. Atlanta might have long forgotten the palpable texture of that old spirit, with only its azaleas and wisteria in bloom acting as a reminder of that time of magic. But if you are willing to travel to enchanted places such as Beaufort SC, or Savannah, GA, it is still all there. Even if my knowledge of Georgia’s countryside is spotty, I deem myself as a connoisseur of both cities, as I carefully stove away from Atlanta any “promising” romantic encounter with an eligible female partner. It all happened a long time ago, but I was right about them –and by that I mean, the cities. I also visited Savannah numerous times with my Georgia Tech students, to study its unique urban layout and infinitely intricate architectural details. I walked up and down those fabulous streets and squares, lined with secular oaks decorated by Spanish moss, then got to the islands and met its eccentric dwellers. Of course, like it happens most of the times in modern life, my job was in the big city, and Savannah, alas, remained a remote dream.
Back to Guido Mattioni, describing Savannah is no easy task, especially for a foreigner who might be liable of missing significant nuances one acquires only after years of exposure to the subtleties of the south – which, needless to say, are not revealed to foreigners or worse, to the yankees, until one proves worthy of that type of patience, perception and understanding. Only if one can slow down! But, on occasion, such grants are offered –and they are a true revelation.
In fact, in order to gain an understanding of the South, time must slow down to a walk –actually, let me rephrase it – it must be altogether forgotten as a measure of all things. This is quite a counter-Western maneuver – hard asking for it in a world which is governed by the clock. Thus, the fact that Mattioni is from Milano strikes me even more. Yet such question is dense of revelations of the “illusions and delusions”, which keep us attached and enslaved to the false promises of city life, to its endless and never-fulfilling cycle of production and accumulation, to its desire to succeed and show its achievements. Lewis Mumford spoke about them, but so did our beloved transcendentalist, Emerson and Thoreau, before him. This “other” aspect of things becomes obvious when one hits 50 – is not jaded, and can still think autonomously. The second thing that must happen to comprehend Southern reality is: noticing others and being able to accept and embrace their unique idiosyncrasies and weirdness as a sign of character, as what the Japanese call Wabi-Sabi – a “defect” that makes you unique. Again, the sensibility of Mattioni did not miss a note of it. He sounds like a native.
In the first forty pages of this book, the author is capable of capturing that spirit –the essence of the South– which has lead many souls to find solace and peace in its beaches, marshlands and oak groves. Not only does Mattioni catch the rhythms of nature, governed by the tide and the breeze, but feels the tuning of all living beings to a different, old, ancestral breath: the breath of Mother Earth, the appreciation of human contacts and clever conversation, the benefit of banning numbing TV’s and modern devices, which give us the illusion of being connected to others –but do they?
In fact, what Guido speaks about is a return to the REAL, to minute details of our day, like eating scrumptious pancakes or sipping a glass of wine at sunset on a porch, in complete contemplation of the sounds and cycles of nature. Paradoxically, a book does so by taking us into the VIRTUAL. His narration often wanders in directions, which may at first appear pointless; but it is EXACTLY the digression from a given path that Mattioni is underscoring, with its wealth of surprises and unexpected discoveries. The rest of it, the essential pleasure of this very pleasant book is for you to savor. I am not entitled to bear judgment on the wounds inflicted by a loss that Alberto (the main character) suffers and describes in excruciating details. Obviously, if you can read between my lines, I prefer the moments of liberation of the wounded bird, like in that inspired song by John Lennon and Paul McCartney:
Blackbird singing in the dead of night.
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.
Black bird, fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.
It seemed appropriate as a closing for a sensational piece of work you must read.
Arturo Giancarlo Pirrone