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Mario's winter
«...The snow will come light as goose feather, dwelling first on trees, then filtering among the branches by placing on frozen cortinarius, cranberry shrubs, moss as sugar veil on the cake. Hares, roe deers, deers will be immobile looking at the new landscape. Foxes inside the den will put out their nose to smell the new and old odour that comes back. But when everything will be white, will the squirrels remember where they hid their supplies? The old capercaillie of Scoglio del Tasso will fly on the abode where generations of its family waited for the spring feeding with those leaves. The woods will be immersed in an unreal time and I will walk in it as in a dream. Many things will appear clear in that light that is born of itself.
The dear wren will come on the woodcock to announce the first snow as I was a boy with its tictictic repeated several times, and its little bell hidden in the throat will also be heard up there where the compact and white clouds wait for the signal.»

(Mario Rigoni Stern Inverni lontani, Giulio Einaudi editore, Torino, 1999)


In the cold winter morning, on the mountain the snow sparks in the sunlight rising from the low horizon, reverberating in an infinity of glittering sparks that embellish every bend, every ground's bit. Frost, snow, light, beauty of the world. In addition, it is so enjoyable to ski on the still intact slopes, harmonizing the sport gesture with the mountain shapes, its dips, scarps, dorsal hills. The world as a show.
But then the sun rises and the temperature rises: thermal inversion keeps solar heat in the upper layers and the snow starts changing. Early morning bright crystals fall apart, snow does not hold, it becomes soft, it melts. Later, with the sun high by now, it is impossible to ski and everywhere one may hear water slopes flowing. After the wonder, the purity of the snow appears, glaciation is over. Deglaciation begins, the change from mineral to biological, pure crystal reflecting the sun to the life-giving drop, the biotic sphere, the history: the consciousness of living perishable forms, in face of glacial, geological, timeless purity.

(Eugenio Turri, Taklimakan, Tararà Edizioni, Verbania, 2005)


The song of the mountains
«Mountains! You beautiful, so pure in the purplish dawns,
thrilling in the reddened sunsets.
I love your peaks overhanging in eternal snow,
your silent glaciers.
I would like to be among the giants – the rock giants
entering the sky,
The exciting giants singing the silent songs
of infinity,
The giants listening to the dark legends of glaciers,
came as a strange murmur from the breast of the
deep crevasses.
Divine mountains, which nothing is more beautiful, queens of freedom
and infinity (...). »

Dino Buzzati



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