As the oil lamp burns E-Book

Vittorio Belfiore

• Herausgeber: Youcanprint
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

This story paints the vivid image of private life in the intense yet unchanging island of Sicily. All around the narrator, traditions and legends take shape among a people torn between faith and superstition, set against the backdrop of a harsh and bewitching land where passion defines the course of life.

Leseprobe

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Cover

As the oil lamp burns

Adriana Giudice

Vittorio Belfiore

Titolo | As the oil lamp burns

Autore | Adriana Giudice - Vittorio Belfiore

ISBN | 979-12-20396-42-4

© 2022 - Tutti i diritti riservati all’Autore

Questa opera è pubblicata direttamente dall'Autore tramite la piattaforma di selfpublishing Youcanprint e l'Autore detiene ogni diritto della stessa in maniera esclusiva. Nessuna parte di questo libro può essere pertanto riprodotta senza il preventivo assenso dell'Autore.

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Back when oil lamps were still used, that closed off world in which the flame of existence burned slowly like the slow wear of the wick, it was customary that, in the evenings, women would recite the Rosary.

Without neglecting for a single moment the sacred chaplet, the women, with utmost femininity, would conduct the ritual, intertwining the sacred with the profane. It was thus that the Hail Mary ended with the announcement of a son born to the priest’s unmarried niece, and the Glory be was defiled by the throwing of a nut and a barrage of insults towards the cat, who had strayed too close to the cupboard. The sound of the ora pro nobis1 combined with the acrid odour of smoke awoke my grandmother, who had fallen asleep and let her shawl slip into the basin.

My family’s home, given to my grandfather together with a few hectares of land for his faithful service undertaken for his Lordship, occupied the inner corner of a courtyard of an old baronial palace. The poor old man, not believing his luck, had proudly taken care of the lands he had received as if they still belonged to the Baron. Although advanced in his years, his careful and expert eye had allowed my father to build himself a solid standing.

With the exception of the window of my parents’ bedroom, which looked out over the main street, the rest overlooked the inner courtyard, which was embellished by a portico of columns containing a series of classical busts. The windows of the external façade were decorated with garlands of flowers, while the main gate, accessed only during religious holidays, boasted a lavish iron balcony dominated by a heraldic coat of arms. The Baron’s heirs had reluctantly accepted this generous bequest and found our presence in a wing of their palace somewhat irritating. We children, however, cared little about those scowling and haughty faces. Among those frescoed walls, softened by flowers, cherubs, and reassuring nymphs, we felt like princesses, and between hope and modesty we built our lives.