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I have always thought of Sweden as a country adopted by the
men who received the Nobel Prize, that unique and brilliant
distinction in contemporary civilization. No other nation, in
fact, has succeeded in proposing, much less realizing, a similar
prize. Although it originates in a country of a few million
men, the Nobel Prize is a model of universality, charged with
an active and spiritual significance.
The Prize, an award not easily attainable, arouses the passions
of men of every political faction in every nation - a sign of
its omnipresence and of that gulf which the writer, or poet,
or philosopher finds opening before him. Culture, however, has
always repulsed the recurrent threat of barbarism, even when
the latter was heavily armed and seething with confused ideologies.
Here around me are the representatives of one of the most ancient
Northern civilizations, which in the course of its rugged history
has found itself fighting next to those who have determined
the extent of human liberties. It is a civilization which has
produced humanist kings and queens, great poets and writers.
These poets, both past and contemporary, are known in Italy
today, even if only for the volatile side of their restless
temperaments and their brooding spirits. From an allegorical
presence, inspired by the fabled memories of the Vikings, these
difficult and musical names have come to be honoured by us.
They speak more forcefully to us than do the poets of other
civilizations that are decaying or already buried in the dust
of a Renaissance rhetoric. My purpose is neither to eulogize
nor subtly to congratulate myself, but rather to criticize the
intellectual condition of Europe, when I affirm that Sweden
and her people through their choices have consistently challenged
and influenced the culture of the world. I have already said
that the poet and writer help change the world. This may seem
presumptuous or merely a relative truth, but, in order to justify
tumult or acquiescence, one need only think of the reactions
that poets provoke, both in their own societies and elsewhere.
You know that poetry reveals itself in solitude, and that from
this solitude it moves out in every direction; from the monologue
it reaches society without becoming either sociological or political.
Poetry, even lyrical poetry, is always «speech».
The listener may be the physical or metaphysical interior of
the poet, or a man, or a thousand men. Narcissistic feeling,
on the other hand, turns inward upon itself like a circle; and
by means of alliteration and of evocative sounds it echoes the
myths of other men in forgotten epochs of history.
Today we can talk of a neo-humanism on earth in an absolute
sense - a neo-humanism without equal for man. And if the poet
finds himself at the centre of this temporary physical structure,
which was made in part by his spirit and intelligence, is he
still a dangerous being? The question is not rhetorical but
an ellipsis of the truth. The world today seems allied with
the side opposed to poetry. And for the world, the poet's very
presence is an obstacle to be overcome. He must be annihilated.
The force of poetry, on the other hand, fans out in every direction
in organized societies; and if literary games escape the sensibilities
of men everywhere, a poetic activity that is inspired by humanism
does not.
I have always thought that one of my poems was written for
the men of the North, as well as for those of the Dark Continent
or of the East. The universality of poetry is crucial to its
form, its style, let us say (that is, the concentrated power
of its language). But universality is also what was not there
before and what one man contributes to the other men of his
time. Such universality is not founded on abstract concepts
or on a harmful morality - even worse when moralism is involved
- but rather on a direct concreteness and on a unique spiritual
condition.
My idea of beauty is embodied not only in harmony but also
in dissonance, for even dissonance can attain the precision
of a poetic form. Whether we think of painting or sculpture
or music, the aesthetic, moral, and critical problems are the
same; and likes and dislikes are similar. Greek beauty has been
imperiled by contemporary man, who has destroyed form only to
seek a new form for his imitation of life - an imitation, that
is, which will reveal the very workings of nature. I speak of
the poet, of this singular imperfection of nature, who builds
his own real existence piece by piece out of the language of
men. This language, however, is constructed from a sincerely
reasoned syntax, not from a deceptive one. Every experience
in life (whether lived or felt) initially involves an unexpected
moral disintegration, a spiritual imbalance manifesting itself
gradually, and a fear of prolonging a spiritual condition which
has already collapsed under the weight of history. For the man
of letters as for the transitory critic, the poet always keeps
an inaccurate diary, always plays with a terrestrial theology.
Indeed, it is certain that this critic will write that such
poems are but ponderous restatements of an ars nova - restatements
of an art, of a new language which did not exist before these
poems were written (thus the history of poetic form is overturned).
Perhaps the latter is a way of rendering solitude bearable and
of naming the coldest objects that enclose it. The poet's evil
influence? Perhaps, because no one ever fills the silence of
those men who may read just one poem of a new poet, certainly
not the fragile critic, who fears that a sequence of fifteen
or twenty verses may be true. The investigation of the concept
of purity is yet to be done in this century of divisions which
are, in appearance, political; a century in which the lot of
the poet is confused and hardly human. His latest rhapsodies
are always viewed with suspicion for their understanding of
the heart.
I have spoken here not to propose a poetics nor to establish
aesthetic standards but to salute a land for its sturdier men,
who are very precious to our civilization, and who come from
the adopted country of which I spoke before. I now find myself
in this country.
I salute and profoundly thank your Majesties the King and Queen
of Sweden, Your Royal Highnesses, and the Swedish Academy. Its
eighteen members, wise and stern judges, have decided, in awarding
the Nobel Prize to my poetry, to honour Italy, which has been
very rich during this first half century, up to the most recent
generation, in works of literature, art, and thought fundamental
to our civilization.
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