Saddest Day

["Umberto Rossi" <urossi@programatic.it>]

yes, very sad indeed.  Ernst Juenger is no more among us.  He may
still be with us, but that expression has now a completely different
meaning.  And, as usual when someone leaves us, the most rending
pain is that of death making our dialogue with another man, or woman,
absolutely impossible--that the living exchange is replaced by
another dialogue, that is, the dumb dialogue of readers with
writing, is a poor consolation now.

Let me only quote lines WH Auden wrote for Yeat's death:

Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful phisique,

Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives;
Pardons cowardice, conceit,
Lays its honours at their feet.

Time that with this strage excuse
Pardoned Kipling and his views,
And will pardon Paul Claudel,
Pardons him for writing well.

Surely these words are better chosen and placed than mine.  But the 
sense of loss is, I feel, almost the same.

Veramente rattristato e impoverito,

vostro

Umberto Rossi

Se non sei sul web, hai torto!
If you're not on the web, you're wrong!