E noi, oggi, siamo i figli e i padri. Dovremmo dimenticare noi stessi? A quali padri spetta la responsabilita, la colpa? Continuare su questo registro polemico sarebbe un paradosso due volte deprecabile, sia perche non lo consente la piu elementare metodologia filosofica, sia perche non puo la poesia muoversi a marcia indietro, agganciarsi a quella razionalita dalla quale si e mossa per attingere il proprio assoluto. E nell'assoluto dei versi quasimodiani ritrovati a distanza di pochi decenni incontriamo l'apostrofe amara:
Sei ancora quello della pietra e della fionda, uomo del mio tempo."
Quasimodo's anguished cry - War: "an exact science bent on destruction"
"There is a poem by Quasimodo - "Man of my time", from the collection entitled Day after day, 1947 - which I think is worth looking at in this present day when "black birds" darken our daily horizon. To go back to verses written almost 50 years ago isn't a laborious task for poetry always grows more meaningful through the course of centuries and millennia: this time we are taken to the recent past of our own yesterdays lived one or two generations ago before our hair turned its present color of white.
Quasimodo preached at that time:
Forget, o sons, the clouds of blood
come up from out of the earth, forget the fathers:
their tombs buried beneath ashes,
the black birds, the wind, cover their hearts.
And, today, we are the sons and the fathers. Should we forget ourselves? With which fathers does the responsibility lie, the guilt? To continue along these lines would lead in two ways to a deplorable paradox. Firstly, because basic philosophical methodology doesn't allow it and secondly, because poetry can't reverse itself to recapture the rationality behind the impetus for its creation. Now looking at these verses from Quasimodo a few decades after they were written, we come up against a bitter invective:
You are still the one with stone and slingshot, man of my time."