The Personal City

by Dino Buzzati

From this city that none of you know, I send out reports, but they are never enough. Each one of
you, perhaps, knows of or visits other towns; and yet, no one will ever be able to live in this city of
which I speak of except me. And therein lies the only indisputable interest of my dispatches: For the
fact is that this city exists, and there is only one person who can provide any precise information
about it. Nor is it possible for people to honestly say, “Who cares?” The fact that something exists is
reason enough for the world to have to take note of it, howsoever small a thing it may be. And in
this case, we are talking about a whole city, a big city, a huge city, with old neighbourhoods and
new ones, an endless labyrinth of streets, monuments and ruins, whose origins are lost in the dawn
of history, cathedrals laden with intricate filigree carvings, parks (And at dusk the looming
woodpeckers cast their shadows over the squares where the children once played). A place where
every stone, every window, every shop stands for a memory, an emotion, a life-defining moment!

The trick, of course, is to know how to describe things. For there are thousands of cities like mine
throughout the world, hundreds of thousands of them; and quite often, I will admit, these urban
agglomerations are inhabited by only one person, as is the case for me personally, as I mentioned.
Generally speaking, though, it is as if these cities didn’t exist. How many people are there out there
who are able to provide us with any satisfactory information about them? Very few. Most have no
inkling of the secrets they are party to, nor would it ever occur to them to try to communicate them.
Or perhaps they send out long letters packed with adjectives, but when one has finished reading
them, for the most part, one is left as much in the dark as before.

But with me it’s different. Forgive me if this comes across as ridiculous boasting. It isn’t much, it’s
almost nothing, but every so often, with great effort, I admit, I am able to convey an impression,
however uncertain and vague, of the city which fate has assigned to me. Every once in a while,
amid the many messages of mine that are not even read through to the end, there is one of them that
makes itself heard. And so it happens that, out of curiosity, small groups of tourists will show up at
the city gates, and I am called upon to show them around, and to answer their questions.

But how difficult it is to satisfy them. We seem to be speaking different languages. We end up
having to communicate through gestures and smiles. What’s more, they are above all interested in
the innermost neighbourhoods, where I can’t possibly take them: It’s completely out of the
question. I myself don’t have the courage to explore that winding network of buildings, houses and
hovels (the abodes of angels, or of demons?).

For this reason, I usually take these kind visitors to see the more conventional sights, the city hall,
the cathedral, the Croppi Museum (that’s just what it’s called), etc., which, truth be told, are of no
special interest. Hence their disappointment.

Among the members of these eager tour groups there is almost always a bureaucrat, a lawman, a
superintendent, an inspector, an economist, a commissioner or something of that sort, at the very
least a deputy commissioner. This person will say to me something like this:
“I wonder, sir, if you could provide me with some information regarding the sewage network?”

“Why?” I ask, flustered, “Is there some kind of smell?”

“No, no, on the contrary, it has nothing to do with that; but I’m interested in these matters.”

“I understand,” I say, “But I’m afraid I can’t help you. I assume there is some kind of sewage
system, but I’ve never taken the time to find out about it.”

The deputy commissioner shakes his head. “Not good, not good,” he mutters with an air of
superiority, “One ought to look into these things… And tell me, please, what is the annual cost of
the gas supply per capita?”

“The gas supply?” (I have no idea). “There is no gas supply,” I venture, completely discrediting
myself in the eyes of the visitor.

“How do you mean?”

“There’s no gas. It isn’t used here.”

“I see,” the man says icily, and refrains from further questions.

Typically, too, there is always the intellectual lady, already somewhat on in years, who is eager to
display her historical knowledge. “Excuse me, but those foundations… are they late Roman?…
What an interesting arrangement of pilasters… It is exactly of the kind one finds in the Propylaea of
Trebizond… But you knew that already, I presume?”

“Well… you know… I… you see… to tell you the truth…”

She immediately moves on to an old wall on which are visible the remains of some archways, now
filled-in.

“Oh!” she exclaims, “Delightful! That really is extremely interesting. It’s quite exceptional, is it not,
to come across a Norman insertion of this kind within such a clearly Carolingian stonework? And
tell me, sir, what year exactly was this most singular monument erected?”

“Um… right”, I reply, embarrassed by my ignorance, “It’s definitely quite old. It was already there
in my grandfather’s time, that’s for sure. But I’m afraid I can’t give you a precise date…”

And then, more dangerous still, there’s the girl who’s hungry for new experiences. She looks about
her, and immediately, with lightning speed, she picks out the most embarrassing things on view.

“And what about that street over there?” she asks, pointing towards a narrow and sinister-looking
gap between two very tall rows of houses, behind whose blackened and foully-dripping walls, quite
likely, crime is festering. “Where does that picturesque street lead to? Could you take me down
there, sir? I’d like to take some pictures.”

But there is no way I can take her there. Even I have never ventured down that menacing flight of
steps that tumbles down precipitously towards the river, and I believe I never will. Am I afraid, you
ask? Maybe.
But suddenly I realize that the sun, which just a moment ago was almost suffocating in its
brightness, has now disappeared behind the wild mountain peaks that loom over the city. The
evening has arrived, ladies and gentlemen, with all the consequences that that implies, and trailing
shadows are now rising up from the riverbank, where, already, a few streetlights are swaying in the
wind. The night is almost upon us.

At this point a strange agitation comes over the tourists. They glance surreptitiously at their
watches; they begin talking among themselves in low voices. In short, it’s clear they’re in a hurry to
get going. My city is not exactly a cheerful place when the shadows fall, I’m afraid, and it makes
outsiders feel uneasy. But I too am losing my self-assurance, I too can feel the approaching
darkness bearing down upon me from the jumble of old neighbourhoods, carrying along with it
some obscure and bitter weight; I too would like to leave.

“It’s late, we have to go, what a pity,” say the tourists. “Thank you for everything. It was awfully
interesting.” They can’t wait to get out of here.

“Sorry, but do you think I could come with you?”

The deputy commissioner pretends to count up the seating in the cars, and then assumes a pained
expression.

“I’m frightfully sorry, there’s no more room, we’re already crammed in like sardines. I’m really
terribly sorry.”

“Oh, please wait, friends,” I say, not wanting to be left alone. For it isn’t easy, believe me, to spend
a whole night (and the nights are long) in a big city, without any company whatsoever, even if it is
our own city, built out of our own body and soul, soul and body. “Oh, please wait, don’t be in such
a hurry, the streets are safer here at night, and the air is fresh and filled with fragrances. You haven’t
seen anything yet, my friends, just have a little patience. If you want to fully appreciate this place, if
you want to see it in all its glory, you have to wait till dusk. At dusk, ladies and gentlemen, the
sun’s last stubborn rays will linger upon the passing clouds, and their glow will spread out over the
rooftops, the terraces, the domes, the dormer windows, the spires of the ancient basilicas (Where the
emperors were crowned), the windows of the gigantic factories, over the ruins, over the tops of the
oak trees, under whose shady branches the beautiful Clorinda once slept. At this time, curls of
smoke and faint voices rise up from the depths of the intersections, and the thudding rumble of
machinery (While the still moonlight makes the prison courtyard seem like something out of a
fairy-tale), the thudding rumble turns into an immense and harmonious choir, and mingles with our
hopes and dreams. Oh, please wait!”

But it’s not true. In all honesty, it’s not a good idea to linger about these frightful tenements alone
after nightfall. When it gets dark, in spite of the bright light of the streetlamps, from out the doors
now step those people whom one would be better off not running into: People from long ago, dear
friends with whom one used to spend all one’s time from sunrise to sunset, knowing each other’s
every last thought, or else young girls, less than twenty years old, the ones that show up at the
evening rendezvous, looking positively radiant. But what’s the matter with them? Why don’t they
wave to me, why don’t they fling their arms around my neck? And why, instead, do they walk by
me with a barely perceptible smile upon their face? Are they offended? About what? Have they
forgotten everything?
No. It’s simply that the years have gone by! It’s simply that they are no longer the same people.
Time –so much time!– has passed, and without realizing it, they too have been transformed, right
down to their deepest innards, to their innermost brain lobes. All that’s left of them is a
simulacrum, a name, that’s all, and a surname. They walk by me in silence, like larvae.

“Hi Antonio,” I say, “Hi Rita, hi Guidobaldo, how are you?” They don’t hear me, they don’t even
turn their heads; the clicking of heels fades into the distance.

“Just a few more minutes, I beg of you, friends, ladies and gentlemen, Your Honours, Your
Excellencies, why must you run off so soon? You haven’t seen anything yet. Soon the lights will
come on, and the streets will seem like something out of the pages of certain novels, the titles of
which I can’t recall. Every night at nine o’clock in the Admiralty Gardens, there is a nightingale
with a diploma that sings. Pale, beautiful women will lean out over the balustrades that line the
riverfront, waiting: probably for you. In the baroque palace, the Prince will hold a party in your
honour, by the light of chandeliers. Can’t you hear the violins starting up?

But it’s not true. For in this vast city that none of you know, and that none of you will ever know, in
this city built out of my very life (parks buildings goodbye forevers gasometers hospitals
springtimes barracks porticoes Christmases train stations statues love affairs), –Good God!– I feel
so lonely. The footsteps that echo mysteriously from one house to the other whisper to me, “What
are you doing? What do you want? Can’t you see it’s all useless?”

They’ve taken off. The glow of the tail lights has faded into the night, in the direction of the desert.
Is there no one left? Alas, the only traces of human life around here, as you will have gathered, are
nothing but ghosts, and down there, in the winding alleyways of the slums, horrid mountains of
darkness are assembling. A clock on I know not what tower now strikes eleven.

No. Thank God, I’m not completely alone. There is a creature looking for me, a creature made of
flesh and blood. Walking up 18th-of-May Street, under the greenish light of the streetlamps, pitter-
patter, here it comes.

It’s a dog. Long hair, black, with a gentle and pensive air. It looks remarkably like Spartacus, the
poodle I had about fifteen years ago. The same shape, the very same walk, the exact same resigned
face.

Looks like him? It is him. It’s Spartacus, the living symbol of those far off days, which now seem
happy.

He really is coming right up to me, he is fixing me with that deep and heavy gaze that dogs have,
full of anxiety and reproach. In a moment, I can already picture it, he will jump up on me with yelps
of joy.

But instead, when he is just two meters away, and I reach out my hand to pet him, he slips aside as
if I were a stranger, and walks away.

“Spartacus!” I cry out, “Spartacus!”

But the dog doesn’t answer, doesn’t stop; doesn’t even turn his doggy head.
I watch as he grows smaller. A little black sheep, moving in and out of the successive halos of the
street lamps.

“Spartacus!” I cry out again. No response. Pitter-patter. Now he’s disappeared from view.
 The Falling Girl
by Dino Buzzati
Marta was nineteen. She looked out over the roof of the skyscraper, and seeing the city below shining in the dusk,
she was overcome with dizziness.
The skyscraper was silver, supreme and fortunate in that most beautiful and pure evening, as here and there the
wind stirred a few fine filaments of cloud against an absolutely incredible blue background. It was in fact the hour when
the city is seized by inspiration and whoever is not blind is swept away by it. From that airy height the girl saw the streets
and the masses of buildings writhing in the long spasm of sunset, and at the point where the white of the houses ended, the
blue of the sea began. Seen from above, the sea looked as if it were rising. And since the veils of the night were advancing
from the east, the city became a sweet abyss burning with pulsating lights. Within it were powerful men, and women who
were even more powerful, furs and violins, cars glossy as onyx, the neon signs of nightclubs, the entrance halls of
darkened mansions, fountains, diamonds, old silent gardens, parties, desires, affairs, and, above all, that consuming
sorcery of the evening which provokes dreams of greatness and glory.
Seeing these things, Marta hopelessly leaned out over the railing and let herself go. She felt as if she were
hovering in the air, but she was falling. Given the extraordinary height of the skyscraper, the streets and squares down at
the bottom were very far away. Who knows how long it would take her to get there. Yet the girl was falling.
At that hour the terraces and balconies of the top floors were filled with rich and elegant people who were having
cocktails and making silly conversation. They were scattered in crowds, and their talk muffled the music. Marta passed
before them and several people looked out to watch her.
Flights of that kind (mostly by girls, in fact) were not rare in the skyscraper and they constituted an interesting
diversion for the tenants; this was also the reason why the price of those apartments was very high.
The sun had not yet completely set and it did its best to illuminate Marta’s simple clothing. She wore a modest,
inexpensive spring dress bought off the rack. Yet the lyrical light of the sunset exalted it somewhat, making it chic.
From the millionaires’ balconies, gallant hands were stretched out toward her, offering flowers and cocktails. “Miss,
would you like a drink? . . . Gentle butterfly, why not stop a minute with us?”
She laughed, hovering, happy (but meanwhile she was falling): “No, thanks, friends. I can’t. I’m in a hurry.”
“Where are you headed?” they asked her.
“Ah, don’t make me say,” Marta answered, waving her hands in a friendly good-bye.
A young man, tall, dark, very distinguished, extended an arm to snatch her. She liked him. And yet Marta quickly
defended herself: “How dare you, sir?” and she had time to give him a little tap on the nose.
The beautiful people, then, were interested in her and that filled her with satisfaction. She felt fascinating, stylish. On the
flower-filled terraces, amid the bustle of waiters in white and the bursts of exotic songs, there was talk for a few minutes,
perhaps less, of the young woman who was passing by (from top to bottom, on a vertical course). Some thought her
pretty, others thought her so-so, everyone found her interesting.
“You have your entire life before you,” they told her, “why are you in such a hurry? You still have time to rush
around and busy yourself. Stop with us for a little while, it’s only a modest little party among friends, really, you’ll have a
good time.”
She made an attempt to answer but the force of gravity had already quickly carried her to the floor below, then
two, three, four floors below; in fact, exactly as you gaily rush around when you are just nineteen years old.
Of course, the distance that separated her from the bottom, that is, from street level, was immense. It is true that
she began falling just a little while ago, but the street always seemed very far away,
In the meantime, however, the sun had plunged into the sea; one could see it disappear, transformed into a
shimmering red dish mushroom. As a result, it no longer emitted its vivifying rays to light up the girl’s dress and make her
a seductive comet.
It was a good thing that the windows and terraces of the skyscraper were almost all illuminated and the bright
reflections completely gilded her as she gradually passed by.
Now Marta no longer saw just groups of carefree people inside the-apartments; at times there were even some
businesses where the employees, in black or blue aprons, were sitting at desks in long rows. Several of them were young
people as old as or older than she, and weary of the day by now, every once in a while they raised their eyes from their
duties and from typewriters.
In this way they too saw her, and a few ran to the windows. “Where are you going? Why so fast? Who are you?”
they shouted to her. One could divine something akin to envy in their words.
“They’re waiting for me down there,” she answered. “I can’t stop. Forgive me.” And again she laughed, wavering
on her headlong fall, but it wasn’t like her previous laughter anymore. The night had craftily fallen and Marta started to
feel cold.
 Meanwhile, looking downward, she saw a bright halo of lights at the entrance of a building. Here long blacks cars
were stopping (from the great distance they looked as small as ants), and men and women were getting out, anxious to go
inside. She seemed to make out the sparkling of jewels in that swarm. Above the entrance flags were flying.
They were obviously giving a large party, exactly the kind Marta dreamed of ever since she was a child. Heaven
help her if she missed it. Down there opportunity was waiting for her, fate, romance, the true inauguration of her life.
Would she arrive in time?
She spitefully noticed that another girl was falling about thirty meters above her. She was decidedly prettier than
Marta and she wore a rather classy evening gown. For some unknown reason she came down much faster than Marta, so
that in a few moments she passed by her and disappeared below, even though Marta was calling her. Without doubt she
would get to the party before Marta; perhaps she had a plan all worked out to supplant her.
Then she realized that they weren’t alone. Along the sides of the skyscraper many other young women were
plunging downward, their faces taut with the excitement of the flight, their hands cheerfully waving as if to say: look at
us, here we are, entertain us, is not the world ours?
It was a contest, then. And she only had a shabby little dress while those other girls were dressed smartly like high
fashion models and some even wrapped luxurious mink stoles tightly around their bare shoulders. So self-assured when
she began the leap, Marta now felt a tremor growing inside her; perhaps it was just the cold; but it may have been fear too,
the fear of having made an error without remedy.
It seemed to be late at night now. The windows were darkened one after another, the echoes of music became
more rare, the offices were empty, young men no longer leaned out from the windowsills extending their hands. What
time was it? At the entrance to the building down below-- which in the meantime had grown larger, and one could now
distinguish all the architectural details—the lights were still burning, but the bustle of cars had stopped. Every now and
then, in fact, small groups of people came out of the main floor wearily drawing away. Then the lights of the entrance
were also turned off.
Marta felt her heart tightening. Alas, she wouldn’t reach the ball in time. Glancing upwards she saw the pinnacle
of the skyscraper in all its cruel power. It was almost completely dark. On the top floors a few windows here and there
were still lit. And above the top the first glimmer of dawn was spreading.
In a dining recess on the twenty-eighth floor a man about forty years old was having his morning coffee and
reading his newspaper while his wife tidied up the room. A clock on the sideboard indicated 8:45. A shadow suddenly
passed before the window.
“Alberto!” the wife shouted. “Did you see that? A woman passed by.”
“Who was it?” he said without raising his eyes from the news paper.
“An old woman,” the wife answered. “A decrepit old woman. She looked frightened.”
“It’s always like that,” the man muttered. “At these low floors only falling old women pass by. You can see
beautiful girls from the hundred floor up. Those apartments don’t cost so much for nothing.”
“At least down here there’s the advantage,” observed the wife, “that you can hear the thud when they touch the
ground”
“This time not even that,” he said, shaking his head, after he stood listening for a few minutes. Then he had
another sip of coffee.
Translated by Lawrence Venuti  
 The Colomber

Dino Buzzati, translated by Lawrence Venuti

When Stefano Roi was twelve years old, he asked his father, a sea captain and the owner of a
fine sailing ship, to take him on board as his birthday gift. “When I grow up,” the boy said, “I want
to go to sea with you. And I shall command ships even more beautiful and bigger than yours.” “God
bless you, my son,” the father answered. And since his vessel had to leave that very day, he took the
boy with him. It was a splendid sunny day, and the sea was calm. Stefano, who had never been on a
ship, happily wandered around on deck, admiring the complicated maneuvers of the sails. He asked
the sailors about this and that, and they gladly explained everything to him. When the boy had gone
astern, he stopped, his curiosity aroused, to observe something that intermittently rose to the surface
at a distance of two to three hundred meters, in line with the ship’s wake. Although the ship was
indeed moving fast, carried by a great quarter wind, that thing always maintained the same distance.
And though the boy did not make out what it was, there was some indefinable air about it, which
attracted him intensely. No longer seeing Stefano on deck, the father came down from the bridge,
after having shouted his name in vain, and went to look for him. “Stefano, what are you doing there,
standing so still?” the captain asked his son, finally perceiving him on the stern as he stared at the
waves. “Papa, come here and see.” The father came, and he too looked in the direction indicated by
the boy, but he could not see anything. “There’s a dark thing that rises in the wake every so often,”
Stefano said, “and it follows behind us.” “Despite my forty years,” said the father, “I believe I still
have good eyesight. But I see absolutely nothing.” And the boy insisted, the father went to get a
telescope, and he scrutinized the surface of the sea, in line with the wake. Stefano saw him turn
pale. “What is it? Why do you make that face?” “Oh, I wish I had never listened to you,” the
captain exclaimed. “Now I’m worried about you. What you see rising from the water and following
us is not some object. That is a colomber. It’s the fish that sailors fear above all others, in every sea
in the world. It is a tremendous mysterious shark, more clever than man. For reasons that perhaps
no one will ever know, it chooses its victim, and when it has chosen, it pursues him for years and
years, for his entire life, until it has succeeded in devouring him. And the strange this is this: No one
can see the colomber except the victim himself and his blood relations.” “It’s not a story?” 2 “The
Colomber” by Dino Buzzati “No. I have never seen it. But from descriptions I have heard many
times, I immediately recognized it. That bison like muzzle, that mouth continually opening an
closing, those terrible teeth. Stefano, there’s no doubt, the colomber has ominously chosen you, and
as long as you go to sea, it will give you no peace. Listen to me: We are going back to land now,
immediately; you will go ashore and never leave it again, not for any reason whatsoever. You must
promise me you won’t. Seafaring is not for you, my son. You must resign yourself. After all, you
will be able to make your fortune on land too.” Having said this, he immediate reversed his course,
reentered the port, and on the pretext of a sudden illness, he put his son ashore. Then he left again
without him. Deeply troubled, the boy remained on the shore until the last tip of the masts sank
behind the horizon. Beyond the pier that bounded the port, the seas was completely deserted. But
looking carefully, Stefano could perceive a small black point which intermittently surfaced on the
water: It was “his” colomber, slowly moving back and forth, obstinately waiting for him. From then
on, with every expedient the boy was dissuaded from his desire to go to sea. His father sent him to
study at an inland city, hundreds of kilometers away. And for some time, distracted by his new
surroundings, Stefano no longer thought about the sea monster. Still, he returned home for summer
vacations, and the first thing he did, as soon as he had some free time, was hurry to the end of the
pier for a kind of verification, although he fundamentally considered it unnecessary. After so many
years, even supposing that all the stories his father told him were true, the colomber had certainly
given up its siege. But Stefano stood there, astonished, his heart pounding. At a distance of two to
three hundred meters from the pier, in the open sea, the sinister fish was moving back and forth,
slowly, raising its muzzle from the water every now and then and turning toward land, as it
anxiously watched for whether Stefano was coming at last. So the idea of that hostile creature
waiting for him day and night became a secret obsession for Stefano. And even in the distant city it
cropped up to wake him with worry in the middle of the night. He was safe, of course; hundreds of
kilometers separated him from the colomber. And yet he knew that beyond the mountains, beyond
the forests and the plains, the shark was waiting for him. He might have moved even to the most
remote continent, and still the colomber would have appeared in the mirror of the nearest sea, with
the inexorable obstinacy of a fatal instrument. Stefano, who was a serious and eager boy, profitably
continued his studies, and as soon as he was a man, he found a dignified and well-paying position at
a store in the inland sity. Meanwhile, his father died through illness, his magnificent ship was sold
by his widow, and his son found himself the heir to a modest fortune. Work, friends, diversions,
first love affairs- Stefano’s life was not well under way, but the thought of the colomber nonetheless
tormented him like a mirage that was fatal and fascinating at the same time; and as the days passed,
rather than disappear, it seemed to become more insistent. Great are the satisfactions of an
industrious, well-to-do, and quiet life, but greater still is the attraction of the abyss. Stefano was
hardly twenty-two years old when, having said goodbye to his inland friends and resigned from his
job, he returned to his native city and told his mother of his firm intention to follow his father’s
trade. The woman, to whom Stefano had never mentioned the mysterious shark, joyfully welcomed
his decision. To have her son abandon the sea for the city had always seemed to her, in her heart, a
betrayal of the family’s tradition. 3 “The Colomber” by Dino Buzzati Stefano began to sail, giving
proof of his sea-worthiness, his resistance to fatigue, and his intrepid spirit. He sailed and sailed,
and in the wake of his ship, day and night, in good weather and in storms, the colomber trudged
along. He knew that this was his curse and his penalty, and precisely for this reason, perhaps, he did
not find the strength to sever himself from it. And no one on board, except him, perceived the
monster. “Don’t you see anything over there?” he asked his companions from time to time, pointing
at the wake. “No, we don’t see anything at all. Why?” “I don’t know. It seemed to me…” “You
didn’t see a colomber, by any chance, did you?” the sailors asked, laughing and touching wood.
“Why are you laughing? Why are you touching wood?” “Because the colomber is an animal that
spares no one. And if it has begun to follow this ship, it means that one of us is doomed.” But
Stefano did not slacken. The uninterrupted threat that followed on his heels seemed in fact to
strengthen his will, his passion for the sea, his courage in times of strife and danger. When he felt
that he was master of his trade, he used his modest inheritance to acquire a small steam freighter
with a partner; then he became the sole proprietor of it, and thanks to a series of successful
shipments, he could subsequently buy a true merchantman, setting out with always more-ambitious
aims. But the successes, and the millions, were unable to remove that continual torment from his
soul; nor did he ever try, on the other hand, to sell the ship and retire to undertake different
enterprises on land. To sail and sail was his only thought. Just as soon as he set foot on land in some
port after a long journey, the impatience to depart again immediately pricked him. He knew that
outside the colomber was waiting for him and that the colomber was synonymous with ruin. With
nothingness. An indomitable impulse dragged him without rest, from one ocean to another. Until
one day, Stefano suddenly realized that he had grown old, very old; and no one around him could
explain why, rich as he was, he did not finally leave the cursed life of the sea. He was old, and
bitterly unhappy, because his entire existence had been spent in that mad flight across the seas, to
escape his enemy. But the temptation of the abyss had always been greater for him than the joys of a
prosperous and quiet life. One evening, while his magnificent ship was anchored offshore at the
port where he was born, he felt close to death. He then called his second officer, in whom he had
great trust, and ordered him not to oppose what he was about to do. The other man promised, on his
honor. Having gotten this assurance, Stefano revealed to the second officer the story of the
colomber that had continued to pursue him uselessly for nearly fifty years. The officer listened to
him, frightened. “It has escorted me from one end of the world to the other,” Stefano said, “with a
faithfulness that not even the noblest friend could have shown. Now I am about to die. The
colomber too will be terribly old and weary by now. I cannot betray it.” Having said this, he took
his leave of the crew, ordered a small boat to be lowered into the sea, and boarded it, after he made
them give him a harpoon. 4 “The Colomber” by Dino Buzzati “Now I am going to meet it,” he
announced. “It isn’t right to disappoint it. But I shall struggle, with all my might.” With a few weary
strokes of the oars, he drew away from the side of the ship. Officers and sailors saw him disappear
down below, on the placid sea, shrouded in the nocturnal shadows. In the sky was a crescent moon.
He did not have to work very hard. Suddenly the colomber’s horrible snout emerged at the side of
the boat. “Here I am with you, finally,” Stefano said. “Now it’s just the two of us.” And gathering
his remaining strength, he raised the harpoon to strike. “Uh,” the colomber groaned, imploringly,
“what a long journey it’s taken to find you. I too am wasted with fatigue. How much you made me
swim. And you kept on fleeing. You never understood at all.” “What?” asked Stefano, with the point
of his harpoon over the colomber’s heart. “I have not pursued you around the world to devour you,
as you thought. I was charged by the King of the Sea only to deliver this to you.” And the shark
stuck out its tongue, offering the old captain a small phosphorescent sphere. Stefano picked it up
and examined it. It was a pearl of unusual size. And he recognized it as the famous Perla del Mare,
which brought luck, power, love, and peace of mind to whoever possessed it. But now it was too
late. “Alas!” said the captain, shaking his head sadly. “How wrong it all is. I managed to condemn
myself, and I have ruined your life.” “Goodbye, poor man,” answered the colomber. And it sank
into the black waters forever. Two month later, pushed by an undertow, a small boat came alongside
an abrupt reef. It was sighted by several fisherman, who drew near, curious. In the boat, still seated,
was a sun-bleached skeleton: between the little bones of its fingers it grasped a small round stone.
The colomber is a huge fish, frightening to behold and extremely rare. Depending on the sea and the
people who live by its shores, the fish is also called the kolombrey, kahloubrha, kalonga, kalu-balu,
chalunggra. Naturalists strangely ignore it. Some even maintain that is does not exist.
Unnecessary invitations

Dino Buzzati

I wish you would come to me in a winter evening, and squeezed together behind the window panes,
looking at the solitude of the dark and icy roads, I wish we would remember the winters of fairy tales,
where we lived together without knowing it. Through the same enchanted paths we passed in fact,
you and I, with halting steps, together we went across forests crawling with wolves, and the same
geniuses spied on us from the tufts of moss hanging from the towers, among the fluttering of ravens.
Together, without knowing it, from there perhaps we were both looking towards the mysterious life
that awaited us. There, for the first time, mad and tender desires throbbed within us. "Do you
remember?" we will say each other, squeezing gently in the warm room. But you - I remember now
- you do not know the ancient tales of nameless kings, ogres and bewitched gardens. You never
passed, dazzled, beneath the magic trees that spoke with a human voice; you never knocked on the
door of the uninhabited castle, nor walked in the night towards the distant light, nor fell asleep under
the stars of the East, lulled by the sacred canoe. Behind the window panes, in the winter evening, we
would probably remain silent, me lost in dead tales, you in other concerns I do not know. I would ask
"Do you remember?", but you would not remember.
I wish you would walk with me, on a spring day, the grey sky and a few old leaves of the year
before dragged through the streets by the wind, in the suburbs. Melancholy and deep thoughts often
arise in these places, and in those hours poetry wanders, uniting the hearts of those who care about
each other. Hopes also spread that cannot be told by words, suggested by the endless horizons behind
the houses from the runaways trains, from the clouds of the north. We'll go hand in hand, with soft
steps, saying foolish things, silly and sweet things, until the streetlamps will light up, and from within
the wretched buildings the dark stories of the cities, the adventures, the longing for novels will spread.
And then we'll be silent, still holding hands, since the soul will speak without words. But you - now
I remember - you never told me foolish, silly and sweet things. Nor can you love those days I'm
talking about, nor your soul can speak to mine in silence, nor recognize the spell of cities at the right
hour, nor the hopes that come from the north. You prefer the lights, the crowd, the men looking at
you, the streets where they say you can meet your fortune. You are different from me and if you came
that day to walk, you'd complain of being tired; only this and nothing else.
I also wish I would go with you to a lonely valley in summer, constantly laughing at the simplest
things, to explore the secrets of the woods, of white roads, of a few abandoned houses. Stopping at
the wooden bridge to watch the water go by, listening to the telegraph poles that long never ending
story that reaches from one end of the world to the other, and who knows where it will ever go. And
plucking the flowers off the meadows and here, lying on the grass, in the silence of the sun,
contemplating the abysses of the sky and the white clouds passing by, and mountain peaks. You would
say "How beautiful". You would say nothing else, because we would be happy; our bodies having
lost the weight of years and our souls having become fresh, as if they had been born then. But you -
now that I think of it - I'm afraid, you'd look around without understanding; you'd stop worried to
examine your silk tights, you’d ask me for another cigarette, impatient to make return. And you
wouldn't say "That's beautiful", but other poor things that I don't care about. Because unfortunately
you are like that. And we wouldn't be happy, not even for a moment.
I wish as well - let me tell you - to go arm in arm with you through the large streets of the town on
a November sunset, when the sky is pure crystal. When the ghosts of life run above the domes and
gaze the black people, down in the pit of the roads, already filled with anxiety. When memories of
blissful ages and new omens pass over the earth, leaving behind them a sort of music. With the naive
pride of children we will look at the faces of others, thousands and thousands, flowing like rivers
beside us. Without realizing it, we will shine with joy, and all will be compelled to look at us, not for
envy or malice, but smiling a little, with goodness in their hearts, because of the evening that heals
man's weaknesses. But you - I quite understand it - instead of looking at the crystal sky and at the
aerial colonnades beaten by the ultimate sun, you'd want to stop and look at the shop windows, the
jewellery, silks, all those expensive mean things. And then you wouldn't hear that sort of music, nor
understand the reason why people look at us with kindness in their eyes. You would think about your
poor tomorrow and in vain the golden statues on the pinnacles will raise their swords above you,
towards the last rays. And I would be alone. It is useless. Maybe this is all nonsense, and you are
better than me, because you don't assume so much from life. Maybe you're right and it would be
stupid to try. But at least, yes, at least, I would like to see you again. Whatever happens, we will be
together in some way, and find joy. No matter whether by day or night, summer or autumn, in an
strange country, in a bare house, in a dingy inn. It will be enough for me to have you by my side. I
promise that I will no longer listen to the mysterious creaking of the roof, no longer watch the clouds,
nor pay attention to the music or the wind. I'll give up these useless things, even though I love them.
I will be patient when you won’t understand what I say, when you'll talk of facts that are irrelevant to
me, when you'll complain about old clothes and money. There will be no so-called poetry, no common
hopes, no melancholy that often goes with love. But I will have you close to me. And you'll see, we'll
come to be quite happy, simply, just a man and a woman as happens everywhere in the world.
But you - now I think about it - you are too far away, hundreds and hundreds of miles away. You
are inside a life unknown to me, and other men are by your side, to whom you're probably smiling,
as you did to me in the past. And it didn't take long to forget me. You probably don’t even remember
my name. By now I've stepped out of you, I have dissolved among the countless shadows. And yet I
can’t help but think of you, and I like to tell you these things.