Product Description

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #1110355 in Books
• Published on: 2002-07-01
• Original language: Italian
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 176 pages

Features

• ISBN13: 9781843910022
• Condition: NEW
• Notes: Brand New from Publisher. No Remainder Mark.
• Click here to view our Condition Guide and Shipping Prices

Review
After reading Ortis, Foscolo joins the starry Pantheon of Keats, Shelley and Byron -- The Tablet

From the Publisher
Hesperus Press, as suggested by their Latin motto, Et remotissima prope, is dedicated to bringing near what is far—far both in space and time. Works by illustrious authors, often unjustly neglected or simply little known in the English–speaking world, are made accessible through a completely fresh editorial approach or new translations. Through these short classic works, which feature forewords by leading contemporary authors, the modern reader will be introduced to the greatest writers of Europe and America. An elegantly designed series of exceptional books.

From the Inside Flap
If someone should come and lay hands on my tomb and disturb my remains, dragging my ardent passions, my opinions, my crimes from the night in which they have been laid to rest, do not defend me, Lorenzo. In answer say only: ‘He was a man, and unhappy.'

Customer Reviews

Romantic whining of the most enjoyable kind
While I cannot say that this book is for everybody, fans of Italian literature and those interested in colossally contradictory attitudes will be thrilled. Jacopo Ortis, a young romantic (Romantic with a capital R, as you'll see) manages to wallow whole heartedly in every imaginable feeling of alienation, exile, painful love, pessimism regarding man and nature, suicide, weakness that he can muster-- and muster them he does in his venomous letters to his friend. From the beginning, we realize that this guy isn't going to be around long. A love affair (not unrequited, surprisingly enough) with a woman named Teresa drives him to the extremities of self hatred, self recrimination, and self destruction. He alternately claims that all society is constructed on illusion, and yet goes on page-length rants about the singular beauty of Italy and its unjust occupation by whoever. In the tradition of Leopardi, he dissects every human belief as comforting illusion, all while feeling that there are sufficient reasons for him to off himself and exalting morality. Jacopo is a confused guy, but manages to cast a strange spell over others--Teresa's father, for instance. He exudes the sanctimonious air of a priest. This is literature, of course.

The end is predictable. It is truly a touching work, but there is a point past which Jacopo's rantings become both depressing and annoying. Now we know why Nietzsche couldn't stand Rosseau. Still, there is a delicious self indulgent, tragic touch to it.