Subject: New Yorker, Jun 19 1965
gblasi@mirabella.peoples.it
Date: Fri May 02 1997 - 11:22:05 GMT
This message was originally written in Italian and later translated. My
knowledge of English does not allow me to take responsibility for the
translation which has been done by a young teacher of a university of
adequate prestige that has three good campuses in the State of New York. I
wouldn't want to give the impression that I have doubts on the technical
ability of the translator who enjoys my unconditional respect. The problem
is that this person is very dear to me and, unfortunately, our mutual
feelings, lately, have became rather distorted, probably unbeknowst to her,
on account of my rapport to the works of JDS (which without difficulty I
admit to being dangerously neurotic). I know fully well that if JDS were to
read such a statement he would be rather annoyed, but I think it is really
improbable that he will ever read this digest, and this puts me at ease.
Neverthless, I hope that the translation remains neutral enough, as I have
repeatedly asked the translator.
The introduction has been longer and more boring than it was intended to be,
as it often happens, and yet it seems necessary to alert all those who will
have the patience to read.
But let get the issue that concerns me. Well: on Wednesday, March 26, I was
in New York for various reasons, none of which could possibly be of any
interest to the reader. It must be said, since I haven't done it until now,
that I live in Italy, where I was born, and I come to New York a lot less
often than my neurotic, by my own admission, rapport with the works of JDS
might leave one to imagine. Already before my departure I had decided to
retrieve a photocopy of the New Yorker of June 19, 1965, during my brief
stay in Manhattan, since this would have been a difficult task in Italy. I
don't think necessary here to explain to you why I needed a copy of that
magazine. And so, on Wednesday, March 26, in the early afternoon, while I
was walking against the wind, a freezing wind, along Fifth Avenue at about
Fortieth Street, I decided to stop by the New York Public Library and try to
solve my little problem. With me were, and I don't know how gladly, my
fifteen year old son and the person in charge of this translation.
The entrance of the building was well heated and had quickly consoled us
after a cold morning spent walking aimlessly around midtown, but the sudden
change in temperature put a blush on our cheeks, our noses and even our
ears, giving the erroneous impression that we had accompanied lunch with a
glass of wine or at lest a can of beer. Our appearance didn't in the least
effect the elegant gentleman at the information counter, who, in spite of
the fact that our request might have been somewhat confusing, competently
directed us to the upper floor, room 315, where we would have been able to
find help. Here, in fact, after a short wait in line, which helped us to
wear out the redness of our noses, a smiling lady, with delightful
attention, explained to us that in the adjacent room we'd be able to find
the collections of the most important magazines, the New Yorker included, in
microfilm readable with the machines located in the same room. I said with
delightful attention: it almost seemed that since the beginning of the week
all she was waiting for was to be attentive to a strange group of two
italians ill at ease with english (one younger than the other) and a
brilliant translator, involved much to her chagrin, in a matter which had no
practical importance whatsoever. I beg your pardon if I seem too emphatic;
the fact is that an attentive librarian doesn't just impress me favorably:
frankly it moves me.
For those of you that don't know the microfilm-room of the NYPL, I'll say
that it is a very large room, great part of which is occupied by about forty
reading stations, each provided with a scanning machine and a photocopier,
in addition, of course, of a comfortable chair and a small desk. At the end
there are metal filing cabinets, clearly labeled, in which the microfilm
rolls are kept. The organization requires that each person looks for the
microfilm needed, takes it to the reading station, takes his/her time
consulting it and, at the end, brings it back in its place. A very practical
and civilized system, I would say.
When we entered the room I just described, there were around twenty stations
free. I asked my son to take a free one and to try to understand how it
worked (in these things he is particularly quick) while I, with my language
consultant, would have tried to retrieve the right microfilm. And so, while
the young man was easing himself in front of one of the machines, chosen
completely by chance, I went toward the filing cabinets, with the swinging
walk of a colored man going through Times Square carrying his high volume
stereo on his shoulders, as my favourite translator comments, with great
deal of indulgence though.
The search would have been easy. The whole New Yorker was housed in two
drawers; all in all about one hundred rolls organized in accurate
chronological order and perfectly labeled. The fact was that of the entire
collection, only one was missing: just the one containing the number of June
19, 1965. Careful and patient checking, label by label, confirmed the
initial impression. That microfilm was the only one missing. A young woman
nearby, wearing a uniform that made her look reliable, upon being informed
of the circumstance, couldn't give us more than a shrugging of her
shoulders, not very promising but very eloquent. The microfilm was not there
and all that was left to do was to get our young man and leave, resigning
ourselves to a pleasant but fruitless expedition. The most disappointed,
however, seemed to be the tranlator, who, quite unexplanable, in some way
felt responsible for the failure, even though still unwilling to consider my
request reasonalble in any way.
We found our young man happy to inform us that he was perfectly in command
of machine which at this point had become quite useless; and he did not show
any disappointment over the fact that the microfilm could not be found. Kids
today, it's well known, can adapt to the reality of things better than
adults. While I was reflecting on this edifying thought, my eyes caught
sight of a microfilm peacefully resting on the desk of the viewing station
occupied by the young man and in front of which we were standing sadly.
Reading the label was an almost conditioned reflex.
You won't believe it; it was exactly the microfilm that I was looking for.
It took me at least five, maybe ten minutes, of stressing questions to the
young man to convince me that the roll had been there, on the table we
occupied, completely by chance, since we came into the room. It was there,
therefore, as if it had kindly come to meet us, omitting to say good morning
only because of shyness.
I'm afraid that this story will increase the neurotic nature of my rapport
with JDS. I can imagine the worried and condescending looks of some people I
know. I would like to think, maybe, that the microfilm had been viewed, that
day at that hour, by a student doing a research on the advertising graphic
style of the sixties and then, remembering to make an important phone call,
left it there, forgetting to put it back in the filing cabinet. It's for
this that I leave this message here; maybe someone tell me something about.
In the meantime, I'm back in Italy, with the copy of Hapworth 16, 1924, in
the version published on the 1965 magazine (and a few other things).
Unfortunately I read the story with much difficulty, because, as you know,
my English is really elementary. Therefore, if anyone wishes to write to me,
must do it in a very simple English since I don't believe that I can take
any further advantage of my translator.
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