Chapter 14 My Romance with Fia Metta (2)

One day, on the top shelf, I found a precious reward, My dad often reads this stuff, But don't let us children peek at a row; An old brown book quite old, The font and binding seem dated, On that stained title page, Printed with the author's name: Boccaccio. This name, I had never heard before, But when the right time comes, It became a place I never forget, A beloved name that haunts the pages of the book. Going back hundreds of years, I wander In the idyllic country and the theater royal, Accompanied by nobles and their wives, It was a pleasant meeting with Buccaccio's old friends.

Those lively maidens and majestic knights, They all looked bright, All adventurous and spontaneous, They quickly became my confidants. They are playful and sentimental, Often I can't stop crying, For their heroic deeds, It's as if listening to Nabukaqiu's elaboration from the beginning. In the boy's dream, I see you again Those country girls and court ladies, Those dandies and religious monks, Dressed in fine clothes for sacrifice or entertainment. Once again, I heard the nightingale sing, It's exactly the same as the song many years ago, In the Italian valleys hidden by the woods,

The singing is dedicated to the respected Buccaccio. I still love the old brown book, I found it in the top bookcase, I love it so I will never lend it, Never let anyone else see it except yourself. But I have a son who is tall and big, I have good reason to think that: Surely he'd love to have fun with it, And the great friendship of Boccaccio. Oh, children are so different now, It's very different from when I was a teenager. I worry about my son not knowing what to do Appreciate the magical effect of the storyteller's joke. For your friendship, oh friend, I think its function is to persuade

Let us gather the noble fruit, Follow your lead, Buccaccio. So you rest on the shelf, Dressed in tarnished brown Perhaps one day, the child himself will Find you, take it down and examine it carefully. He may feel joy again, That feeling that filled me with tremors, Years ago I was humbled by it, That is the honor bestowed by Buccaccio. To the sleazy imitators I say: Fuck you!You Banderos, you Strapaloras, and all you other charlatans who take pride in appropriating for yourselves the empire that Boccaccio's genius bequeathed to mankind, go to you!There is only one Master, to whom we pay our grateful respects.He guides us through the corridors of time, and with a touch of his, the dead can be resurrected, and all the tenderness and bravery left over from the past can be restored to the world.Valor, love, sacrifice, tears, laughter, wisdom, intelligence, insight, charity, and understanding, were all his helpers; mankind, his inspiration, his subject, his audience, and his debtor.

This empire, which now belonged to Tancred's daughter, also belonged to Rosie Grionne's wife.Soon he told us that it belonged to the trickster gardener, and it belonged to Arleigh Birch; La and Ansaldo.Whatever the subject, he soon brought it to life, and endowed it with so skillfully his indescribable genius that he drew our pity and our passion to it. This is true, and we should read him with compassion and understanding.What kind of writer shouldn't be like this?It seems to me that it would be better to leave my boccaccio with a blind and dumb but wise and beautiful woman than to put it in the hands of a fool.

I have alluded to what a dreadful fate befell Ysult Hardinger, solitary at Mr. Henry Boggs's Lincolnshire estate.Mr. Henry Boggs knew nothing about romance, and took little care of her.He was completely incapable of admiring a woman with dark eyes and a vast heart.I can assure myself that any time he would happily trade a copy of The Gentleman's Bird Seller for a year's subscription to Punch (a brilliant example of human imbecility). Oh Ysult!How nice it would be if you were just a book!