The following day, we arrived very early in the outskirts of the Province of Napoli, very close to our ancient Jewish Quarter and the old Synagogue-School (Ah, the Synagogue-School!). We entered, and my son looked at those buildings, some ancient, others modern, with flowers in the windows illuminated by the morning sun. There was already some movement in the streets, and his eyes were wide with amazement at having arrived there. We left the car in a certain place and began to walk along Corso Appio Claudio and Piazza della Repubblica. My son looked all around, at those terraces with clothes hanging high, like open-air cellars; when we crossed Via Giambattista Vico, my son stopped, moved, and said to me:
— Babbino, I am smelling the exact same scent of my grandfather in this place — what nostalgia!
I embraced him without saying a word, and we went to a bar near the Baronial Castle, because that moment demanded another coffee in LA PICCOLA CAFFETTERIA; and at the tables on the sidewalk, letting the fragile sun rest on our faces, for it was very cold, we ordered our macchiato.
My son has an open expression: if he is displeased, you can see it on his face; when he is happy, his green eyes shine, his skin brightens, and a smile is stamped across his face! He had vivid eyes, an illuminated face, a strikingly stamped smile, and his coffee in hand, as he looked deeply at me and intoned ‘O Paese d’ ‘o Sole. I placed my coffee on the table and put my hand on his shoulder:
— Here, son, from the seeds we planted, I have received flowers, trees, and fruits! However, the greatest joy is having planted them, because life belongs to simplicity and is worth more, far more, than existence. Life is Poetry and music, journey, encounter, plains, air. Existence is poem and noise, road, distance, labyrinth, suffocating gases. And the violence committed against one being, any being, is committed against all and against the Eternal!
Love is truly sowing acts of kindness! Wisdom is never calling them seeds! And the heart is the universe where life is privileged with Shalom. There are no cries, deaths, violations there — only music, serenity, loyalty, affection, gentleness! If I fail, son, it does not matter. Make your heart a place of good earth and let there be flowers, of all kinds that can be found, of various scents and colors. But do not die among them! Make delineated paths, with stones that endure, and scatter many signs, large signs, immense, expressive signs, in every corner:
NO KILLING HERE!
Wide paths for people, because, after all, a garden does not exist without people. And do not be displeased if they create pathways between the flowers, of mere trodden earth, to go, come, and be, because this is the life of the human being, opening pathways — but not destroying the garden. Do not wish for more than this! The butterflies and the angels belong to the Eternal.
Turn life into a house, but do not use disposable material. It must endure and generate nostalgia, leave memories, strike deep roots, and bear fruit. Open windows in all directions and raise a high roof that follows the ceiling, so as to have enough air and music diffused like human unction and blessing.
In the house, son, keep few Things — more people. No business and many encounters. Among Things, prefer those that are simple, rustic, and durable. Among people, those who are fully human. And, among them, women, especially those who smell of Poetry and can be called a “blessing of God,” since their senses are more developed than in other beings, their scent is more pleasant, and when they open their mouths, they lead poets toward all worlds.
Do not forget coffee: it is vital. Prepared, never by maids, in cloth filters; and served, never to the hurried, in enameled iron cups. Everything must be deeply lived and seen, smelled, tasted, heard, spoken, and understood — never tomorrow! For this reason, your house must be the gathering of good people, heart and music, much music! And Poetry, much Poetry!
Leave outside the one who commodifies and makes a madhouse of the world, a desert of the forest, a chemical sewer of the river, a slave of the human, an idol of a Rabbi, a market of sacred places. Leave outside the one who tramps on ants, the one who fishes for sport, the one who keeps a dog on a chain and does not remove its ticks, the one who shoots birds; above all, those who kill small birds or display them in a cage — with them, not even a greeting! Leave outside the one who curses children (especially in the womb), despises the elderly (including those in nursing homes), and calls themselves a spontaneous generation.
Leave outside the one who loves the hamburger and the necrophage — who photographs and films too much, incessantly and desperately; the one who sits at the table as if before a trough; the one who loves slander and lashon hara; the one who loves the cell phone and internet nights; the one who loves cars and money; the necrophile who loves porn videos and, above all, pedophiles, even virtual ones.
In fact, leave outside the one who loves any things and despises the human and the Eternal; above all, the oppressive, prejudiced, arrogant, corporatist, usurious nightmare, the banker, the landlord, the trafficker, the legalist, the pedophile, the sadist, the mercenary, the imperialist, the Nazi, the Fascist, the antisemite, the terrorist, the torturer, the executioner (and every vampire and parasite); and, furthermore, the cowardly, envious succubus, the voyeur, the masochist, the fanatic, the racist (black or white), the monarchist, the café-au-lait republican, the neo-Fascist, the Hitlerite, the Mussolinian, the militarist, the anti-ethical, the traitor who embraces and laughs that dental laugh, without reason, and does not look you in the eye. The liar, the vile parliamentarian, and every parasite and dregs of humanity.
And leave outside, also, the one, with or without a ring — anxious, who spies and loves to talk (well or poorly) about the lives of others, whether at a wedding, at a school-family meeting, at a graduation, at a barbecue, at an electoral, charitable, or orgiastic gathering, at a birthday, for Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, at Christmas, on New Year’s Eve, at a pedagogical meeting, or at a funeral; whether at the hairdresser or in Parliament, in the synagogue, in the mosque, in the temple, in a SPA, in a clinic or in the gym, in a condominium or in a shantytown, on a plane, on a bus, in an elevator, on the stairs, at the front gate, at the door or at the window, in corridors and waiting rooms, at the market or at school, in the tavern, at the club, in soap operas, on TV, in newspapers, in magazines, on the Internet, or in a secret order (and every slanderer in any dark and suffocating alley of society).
And leave outside, too, the one who loves flowers — and other unspeakable things — of plastic, hung diplomas, solitary, artificial, virtual, and over-the-phone relationships; the one who sucks the time of others, the life of others, mainly of their own family members; the one who does not pay alimony and the one who turns a beautiful woman into a trinket, a trophy, a slave, or a zombie. Because they speak of a woman as a thing or an inferior being — ah, son, this is the worst! He is so imbecile and useless that he does not believe in the love of pupils, lips, bread, and navel; he does not believe in Poetry, in music, in sweat, intimacy, and communion! And he does not know nor believe that there are multiple feminine flights. For him — who bars the cellar — wine is for business, ostentation, and vanity, and not to anoint the navel and the mouth of a woman. He has never read a single line of the Song of Songs, nor does he know anything about Creation!
So, open your house to poets, musicians, and women-Poetry. Men, only those of a human character, moderate in the Torah and the Nevi’im, because the light is (and will come with them) and they will not create obstacles to your growth before the Eternal. Do you understand? However, do not be merciless; have mercy on the one who ignores heaven, earth, the sea, hell, and paradise; who has never lost sleep, nor counted the stars, nor stopped before the moon, nor abandoned themselves to the breeze; who has never seen angels and demons, has never looked into the void, nor laughed for nothing, nor cried for nothing, nor sworn for nothing; who has never seen a small cottage in the countryside empty and abandoned, nor brought their hands to their mouth before an ancient bed and mirror; who has never possessed the wings of an archangel or an insect to fly over oceans, nor wished to climb any mountain. He ignores the matter of which the soul is formed. Mercy, son! He is tasteless because he has not yet loved nor been loved!
All right, my son, all right, that is not all! For now, rest, and when you are before the Eternal, cover yourself with your Tallit and your Kippah. And when you are with your family, place homemade bread upon your table. Break it with your hands, the same hands that touch the Mezuzah — never with a knife. Pure bread, without injustices! Bread without the freedom of others, nor the hunger, privation, or deprivation of others, nor the nakedness or dignity of others, nor oppression over another’s person, nor the sadness or pain of others. Bread without the body, soul, spirit, and affections of others, nor the blood or life of others. The table must be simple. Your bread, earned by sweat. And your hands, son, righteous!
(Pietro Nardella-Dellova, Al Figlio nella Piccola Caffetteria, in A Morte do Poeta nos Penhascos e Outros Monólogos. São Paulo: Editora Scortecci, 2009, p. 35)