Thoughtful or practical? Either way, there’s still time

It’s mid-August; Italians are still soaking up the sun by the sea for a few more days, the beach is packed and restaurants are still hard to book, but something is beginning to shift. The holidays are no longer in full swing but are drawing to a close; the blue of the sky is no longer quite so invincible; clouds are gathering and the sea, which had been sleeping peacefully, is beginning to stir and churn. The city is close at hand once more; soon the ‘Marcovaldis’ will be back at their desks, cursing the ring roads. The first work emails marked ‘urgent’ are starting to appear, though for now they are being blissfully ignored. It’s a brief interlude, this three-quarters of the way through summer, and there are two ways of approaching it that closely resemble the two ways of being in the world.

I Pensosi. A brief summary in the style of Flaiano that captures the impression: “And in the middle of August, one evening, we shall feel the cold breath of autumn once more – the sign of the end. A sensitivity so heightened that it makes him experience the entire cycle of life, every day and every year. Twilight kills him, autumn saddens him. He can no longer enjoy the joys of the seasons and the hours of the day: in each he sees a hint of twilight. He longs for midday and the full summer sun, which are life itself’. (from "The Diary of Errors"). They are harder to spot than ants on white paper. They need to introduce a new problem straight away, without even taking the time to sort the previous one out. They cannot keep the melancholy that has afflicted them since primary school under control. The opening remark is always the same: "the light has changed"; they say it around five in the afternoon, treacherously—it is the phrase that ruins everything. How can anyone live like this – the others wonder – because of this sense of anticipation that anticipates nothing, but merely states what everyone knows, and which they were trying to ignore? The bon vivant is still gazing at the sea, whilst he, on the other hand, senses September everywhere. And above all – the coup de grâce one deals to oneself – he begins to think about how things are going for him. And how do you expect them to go? Badly, but if you put your particular situation into the broader context of human suffering, it could be a lot worse, so you’re actually doing quite well.

I Concreti. “A light sirocco, a hazy sky, then sunshine and a quick, invigorating dip. A long time on the beach. A very sweet weariness. I’d like to write a short story about the end of summer. To capture, through brief episodes, the melancholy of the season. But to remember the calm, the silence, the peace – and the balance of the senses and the soul. These are the moments that should stand still”.(u.s.). The Concrete One possesses the talent for living in the present. He is not cut out for Dostoevskian adventure; he still has ten days ahead of him and does not allow any thought to take on a life of its own, especially those that spiral unhappily. He shooes them back to where they came from; indeed, he buys a new swimming costume. It’s still the holidays, the 20th of August, and indeed, if we’re lucky, we’ll be in for a magnificent September; a month calmer than these last scorching ones will gently usher us into autumn. There’ll still be fried anchovies and white wine; we’ll enjoy more of the sea. Who knows if it’s fate, or if one becomes down-to-earth through effort; who knows if it was the difficult childhoods or the easy ones. Perhaps neither. Perhaps it would suffice merely to remind ourselves that summer will soon be over and we would not even wish for it to linger, though we have enjoyed it greatly (semi-colloquial). It is a battle between two camps: ‘by now’ and ‘there’s still time’. Those in the know assert that there is still time, and they are correct – it is 20 August, there is still time for everything.