eroded by the century, the bodies ask questions
the favoring winds fill out their shapes

Few people are present when one is writing: there is the author and an emergent inner world which, at times, is capable of taking him by the hand. Once the task is finished, what counts is on the page and the writer is alone again or, at best, in the company of a few "loyal friends"(1) and potentially interested readers. If from the very beginning private(2) writings have seldom put bread on the table and garnered only a few, isolated readers, the reasons are many and well-known. Generally, authors must be reminded that individual problems are inherently ominous hence it isn't necessary to relive or endure those of others, even if concisely presented. The official line still holds; it is useless to spend time on these matters. Thus one's energies are not wasted and, as mandated by our modern culture, the process becomes socially useful as well as very pleasing to most people. Not ignoring the suggestions of experts, the author realizes that at the personal level everything seems different, beginning with learning how to re-read(3) oneself: slowly, individual foibles, short-comings and omissions come to the surface; from one's interior library arise forgotten and unusual words, as well as the desires or dreams in and of the language. Most often, they are the residual traces of various journeys, of the élan momentarily brought to light and followed by understandable silences, all of this according to the ebb and flow of the universe. Great caution should be exercised with the oldest and more resonant fragments since within a person's memory everything percolates. Firstly, ideology needs to be brushed off all texts (the beauty of the political moment is something else altogether!); next, interesting cultural stratifications ought to be uncovered and the recovered text then carefully dissected. Furthermore, it is in being worked-upon by language that one obtains particularly gratifying feelings; at times one gets satisfaction by irreverently opening doors not altogether shuttered and by then entering, unguided, inside labyrinths that do not guarantee safe exits. Like it or not, it is not fortuitous that everything exists in the body, including that strange entity still popularly referred to as the soul. In other words, such personal happenings do possess a physical signature; these texts from the Friuli are embodied voices and events: a little like certain palpitations of the heart capable of influencing texts already codified as well as some well-established (typo)graphies(4). Above all, they are not poetry in the dialect language of the Friuli, as the subtitle clearly indicates, and so everybody can sleep peacefully. Within the dialect forest, these days, one finds many more poets than mushrooms; it is another reason for insisting that the author here has no intention of writing poems. This is an important clarification which emphasizes, obvious simplifications aside, the existence of a real issue: the concept of poetry (a topic of extensive current literary analy- sis) which remains elusive and whose definitions are forever changeable in our space-time continuum. Maybe for this reason the evaluation of so much personal writing is delegated to the dubious critical skills of the reader. After these considerations, the time has come to reevaluate one's own opinion of the literary forest. In order to provide some reflections, but without diluting the overall picture and attempting not to be presumptuous, it might be useful to offer some insights on the intimate landscape of these pieces (observe for instance, along the sintagmatic or contextual vectors, both the excessive presence and/or scarcity of the infinitive verb form to be; meanwhile, along the paradigmatic vectors and pointing outside of the text, one can observe the connections to the linguistic memories of the various societies).
Although a subjective conclusion, nonetheless such intimate, private and very self-reflective writings seem to suffer a strange destiny. Their connection to a potential reader is never simple; one pays dearly for it. Writing seldom is a purely intellectual operation; it is also the committed intervention of bodies [i.e., of human beings]. As a result every attempt to approach a potential text, even when the efforts are sincere, demands a physical as well as an intellectual expenditure of energy. This is probably another aspect that is being ignored when so much disagreement in the world of literature is prevalent. My first observation is obvious: at present, every self-conscious writer of dialect knows that he or she for the most part must direct the product toward a specifically interested readership, rather than towards the few surviving speakers of a particular dialect (patently a rather sterile notion, variously manipulated and with a definite objective). For these reasons it is best to reject a nonexistent language and many writers who possess such refined strategies are labeled household enemies.
Other opinions, just as relevant, ought to be noted, like those entailed in extra-ordinary readings which employ, for example, discarded linguistic structures within a context characterized by a preponderance of signifiers; these however are more or less acknowledgments of wasted efforts. Our prevalent utilitarian tendencies deplore useless labors and continuously emphasize those few useful concepts derived from a "politically correct" literary milieu. The supercharged, always difficult rapport between the various, intense literary messages and the political power-brokers will accomplish the rest. Hence the written pages of those authors who daily restructure a personal via linguistica [a linguistic and, therefore, cultural road map] are always dangerous. And the motives are readily understandable: even children have discovered how various linguistic codes, once deployed, yield a greater freedom of thought. As a result, the increased value and presence of these exiles among the unspoken words present a threat, or at least a contrast, to the standardized plans proposed by our overtly complex societies. Curiously, the (neo)dialect code with its rustic context, so clearly dissociated from past cultural "reserves" and practices, seems nevertheless capable of eliciting concerns among the dominant society. At best these entail an attitude of benign neglect since it's commonly known, even among current culture czars, that every hope for poetry has vanished, particularly the wish to create a genuinely poetic maternal language. To date, the awareness of subtle linguistic shifts remains diffuse, undercut by the predominant hostility towards any attempts at repatriating modern man via writings that operate beyond established models and are written for the few persons who still favor them.
Surely, beyond offering an invitation to explore existential questions in greater depth while avoiding any pretense at making profound discoveries or bettering conditions in our nation's marginalized areas, even such (neo)dialect writings have the power to disturb, particularly when they try to reflect the rumblings of this world (and, maybe, diminish the writer's own tendencies towards self-aggrandizement). Every linguistic system, even if a "minor" one, is able to properly verbalize everything, and in this ascending order of importance: friendship, love, death (or, more accurately, producing pages written because of love, rather than caused by being in love) These are important and ever-present dilemmas; at the level of literary output maybe a multitude of activities remains possible, thanks even to prose works, fragments, and texts generated beyond those offered by the acknowledged literary masters and/or by best-selling authors. Clearly stated: if there is no genuine creativity even the recent flowering of neodialect writings will wisely end in silen- ce.(5) In our time, both extant and projected writings seem to exhibit a greater percentage of "prose" lyricism, texts that accentuate a discomforting commonality of destinies, or, in other words, a measure of our earthly travails. And the energies deployed by dialect authors, confined as they are to very few friendly climates as well as working within their chosen linguistic borders, are mainly channeled toward singing about human frailty.
Among many types of perambulations, each day generally proffers annotations related to the personal explorations of our limits: notably, even if suffering is not despair, our chats with the unknown always yield meager rewards. Maybe Adorno's inquiry into the concrete possibility of a valid poetry, even after the horrors of this century, still carries its just weight. On the other hand, aware of past indignities, one must absolutely continue to write even more responsibly, never forgetting that our questions do not become irrelevant detours. After the death of the gods(6), especially during these last two centuries, Western thought is restless and clearly highlights our existential angst; every century seems to create its own reality.
Recollecting for the moment some valid complexities of the literary life, in my own view it is still possible today to produce a variety of writings that utilize those "minor"(7) linguistic codes . In general we are referring to texts that oscillate between two poles: the literary (i.e., the textually correct position, as well as its accepted variants) versus the neo-lyrical stance (i.e., the neoromantic position, or, better, the linguistic energies and emotions deployed by our contemporaries, the real poets of our time). We could also be dealing with phrases or fragments that are in search of other echoes, of different listeners, but are above all attuned to the essence of things (not those three or four things that we all possess and shall have to abandon someday). In making these choices, even if witnessed by the indifferent stars, we cannot discount the difficult interplay of power between the predisposed linguistic representations of life and the very real participation of our bodies in the process of life. More specifically, having established the rights to our personal rhythms, it is appropriate to focus the attention upon some of the formal aspects of a dialect literature which, in the past, have been largely ignored. These days, a potentially rewarding type of writing still depends upon linguistic codes that are officially dead.
Maybe, the less the code is standardized and socially valued the better the results obtained; this more or less applies to all linguistic systems.
Once remembrances (and influences) are acknowledged, it might be important to emphasize the labors of selecting the varied messages that come to the surface. This way we can avoid ingenuity ( such as rewriting the history of the world) and erode absolutes (in our modern landscape, however, destiny still roams); we can unveil our real nostalgia (as in those things never yet seen, since real existence is defined as life already spent); in these decadent times we might increase the élan vital by attempting, for example, the aesthetic contemplation of life. As a matter of fact, whether drawn up by persons with feet firmly planted on the ground or by tourists in a boat floating down some river, even when carefully curtailed our list of books seems endless. (Re)analyzing our actions, quite possibly we might realize that a writer's activities, understood as the last exercise of free will left nowadays, still offer endless vistas, unimagined horizons. At times, it must be noted, such discoveries do come late in life and typically to some people whose journey is near the end. In addition these become writings which are composed with sadness: not always is there enough time for some rapport with the reader. We are left with the great dilemma of our times: disenchantment, and with a modern conscience overburdened by weakness, vulnerability and a precarious existence. To us, each revealed epiphany has modest dimensions and exhibits almost no connection between the word and the spirit. At best we might notice a feeble attempt to discover some truth in the word (rather than the true word) but outside those verbal systems already strangled by excessive use or by predigested beliefs. And regardless of heartfelt prayers or ecstatic flights of fancy, most of us agree that the gods will not come back to visit; some of us feel they are way too sick to return while others believe no deity could presently inhabit our planet. The possibilities for many forms of writing are actualized in such a context: the silence of the universe can thus be reflected in the silence of language which has been condemned by the crude facts to renounce the numinous in order to come to terms with far more complex modern constructs, and with invisible areas of experience; a few of us might find it easier to live with an image of The Grand Guignol.(8) Not fortuitously and probably due to the resistance offered by the linguistic codes employed, today's texts share a lengthy prosody, complex codification, a propensity toward silence, and a difficulty in embracing the invitation to choral singing. Even tolerating the fact that one cannot make do without writing, after so many shattered hopes a falling back upon private experiences (i.e., the smells of the earth and ever-moving shadows) seems inevitable and comprehensible. For example, in a variety of modern writings we do not encounter the infantile presumption of dialoguing with the gods; we hear no genuine prayers. There is only an honest desire to say something lovely to our dearly beloved. The pretense that we can journey with impunity beyond these personal horizons remains an illusion; curiously, and quite often, it is the texts most devoid of certainties that best speak to the hopes of our contemporaries. The Friulan texts herein collected have not been previously published and are chosen from various manuscripts (some quite old) and re-visited for this occasion. Their order of appearance does not follow any chronological scheme; indeed it is tied to those circuitous meandering suggested by the gurgling that arises from the deepest of wells. On the (ortho)- graphic plane, the blank spaces on these pages (besides indicating a refusal to invade the page or hoping to represent the silences implicit in the writing process) might well function as grammatical signposts: in my opinion it is another way to honestly inhabit the given topography of an unwritten page, even if for a brief time and while standing on tiptoes. From beginning to end, particular attention has been paid to syntactic forms and one hopes that textual errors are minimized since every trans-lation attempt always seems to be solely a heartfelt attempt at re-creation. Semantically, this dialect text tries to reflect distant relationships of communion while the Italian text addresses the issues of communication (and, evidently, deals with the existence of attracting and repelling poles).(9) Summarizing, certain realities of great personal importance but maybe insignificant to others continue to speak to me in the Friuli tongue or, more accurately, its dialect koiné. But maybe all of this is bound up with the relatively individuated life-cycle which existence has bestowed upon me.

Luciano Zannier


(1) "loyal friends" -- in the Italian original: 'amici di casa', literally "household friends"; in certain ways
they are probably related to the old Roman Lares (translator's note).
(2) In the original text the author places words he wishes to emphasize between quotation marks. "... ..." .
In this translation those words are Italicized to provide greater clarity.
(3) The unusual hyphenation of specific words is the author's own choice, which the translator has
attempted to replicate in order to provide maximum fidelity.
(4) As well as the unusual hyphenation cited above, the author uses brackets within certain words for
his own orthographic purposes.
(5) Or as T. S. Eliot admonished: "Not with a bang but with a whimper" [translator's note].
(6) The author here uses an original variation of the Nietzschean "Death of God'" metaphor.
"Dopo il ritiro degli dei" translates more accurately as: "After the retrenchment of the gods" .
(7) "minor" in this context refers to the potential usage of all written/spoken languages of Italy, i.e.,
dialects, neodialects, slang, street talk, etc. [translator's note].
(8) The author uses the image of The Great Circuit which corresponds to the image of a celestial
Grand Guignol [translator's note].
(9) A dialect koiné retaining numenal possibilities as opposed to the Italian langue that offers probable
cognative relationships; in other words, a language that recreates "the music of the spheres"
as contrasted to one which provides a scientific vivisection of that "music".


In the present translation effort, the writer is acutely cognizant of the limitations, imperfections and errors inherent in the process, for which he is solely responsible. Translation copyright @ 1999 by Adeodato Piazza Nicolai. This is an English translation of the essay sui frammenti ritrovati ["On Rediscovered Fragments"] by Luciano Zannier, p. 53-62 of his book titled Pale Maûer, @ 1999 Copyright Campanotto Editore, Pasian di Prato, Udine, Italy; the volume is part of the series "Campanotto Narrative".


English Translations by Adeodato Piazza Nicolai


'E STA DI CIASE cul vint 'n lûcs malsestûz 'e
memorie jè smaride da tainc' ains 'e mé înt
oremai reuardade sùal da peraules d'incuintri e al
è frìet al ciermin dal timp in paîs cence centri
nie ulin dî i nuestris contrèsts 'ntai suburbis
privâz duc' 'e àn premure èncie s'ciàrse jè le
lûs ai cíermins dal gnò timp

ABITA col vento in case malandate la memoria
è livida da tanti anni la mia gente ormai ricordata
solo da parole di circostanza e fa freddo ai
confini del tempo in paesaggi senza centro
niente significano le nostre contraddizioni (1)
nelle periferie personali tutti hanno premura
anche scarsa è la luce ai confini del mio tempo

STAYING with the wind in rundown homes the memories
so bruised for many years my own people remembered
only through half-forgotten words and the cold blows along
the frontiers of time in landscapes without any center
without any meaning our own contradictions(1)
in our personal suburbs everyone is hurried
even the light is feeble at the frontiers of my time

(1) Folquet de Marselha: "...en chantan m'aven a membrar / so qu'ieu cug chantan oblidar...";
Italian: "...cantando mi viene di ricordare/ quello che pretendo di dimenticare...";
"...singing I seem to remember/ what I pretend to forget..."

E `E MI FEVELE dal Tiliment che prime al va
Sotiàre e sùal dapò al mar di tantes vintùres
liquides forsit ence d'une curiose sperance
buine di nadâ contente fin a le fin d'avòst pò di
scuviàrzi 'l ciàlt e 'l dolùar 'e mi conte inmò de
clamàdes di cûr a fèmines sui pecoi sùaI par
fastidis sigùre d'un p^oc di vin grant dât a 'ne màri
d'une lavadùte lidrìc vie fate a 'n frut propit par
chèst 'al reste simpi 'n mè vîf par dut setèmbri
'n grant plasìe da l'aghe 'ntai umign in fonz 'e
cambie sùal 'e temperadure e a ogni natalizi 'al
fa simpi plùi frìet

E MI PARLA del Tagliamento che prima va
Sottoterra e solo dopo al mare di tante avventure
liquide forse anche di una curiosa speranza
capace di nuotare felice fino alla fine di agosto poi
di scoprire il caldo e il dolore mi racconta ancora
di chiamate accorate a donne sui pendii solo per
fastidi certo di un po' di vino meridionale dato ad
una madre di una lavatina stile radicchio (2) fatta
ad un bambino proprio per questo resta sempre in
me vivo per tutto settembre un grande piacere
dell'acqua negli uomini in fondo cambia solo
la temperatura e ad ogni compleanno fa sempre
più freddo

IT SPEAKS TO ME about the Tagliamento which at first
flows underground and only close to the sea about so many
adventures maybe even liquid ones and even of the curious
hopefulness able to happily swim almost until August
ends about discovering heat and the hurt still telling me
about lusty whistles directed at women on the hills surely
just to make trouble about a half-liter of imported wine given
to a mother about a lettuce-like shower(2) dumped on a child
for this very reason an endless pleasure in water is always
alive within me throughout September since after all
men only sense their body temperature change and
every birthday it seems to drop

(2) Casteloza: "...Ja de chantar non degr'aver talan..."; Italian: "...non dovrei essere portata
al canto..."; "I truly shouldn't love to sing so much..."

UN'ÂTE 'e mi dîs le zentenarie 'e zîr cíàrtes e
ritràz dai vòns 'mpare parzè 'e si fan cusì i
libris uìe 'e si mùef 'nfrà ombrènes curtes e
soreli a uàíte dai curtîfs 'ne gnuve savinte zìtadine
zirandule 'nfrà masiérìes pò 'e si fa dòngie a
cristians a sotèt dal calùar 'e víot dut spíe de
faliment dut vùas d'une riserve squàsìt 'e mi dîs
ch'e montagne 'e ten da cont ch'e planure 'e puarte
les gnuvitâz sùal pal scandai 'e mi domande
trupes vôtes co soi lât a val pò 'e sint tenarece par
chel ca reste 'e a a grât rûbes verdes e rosses su le
taule '1 pan de ciase èncie oh s'al sa jéssi
pazient 'l dì ai gnei cunfins quant che pùes 'e san
da le sere des montagnes plui splanades dal lùar
respîr des vùas cence pâs braves a 'mplenâ de
vite les mês masíéries

UN'ALTRA mi dice la centenaria cerca carte e
foto dei nonni impara ché si fanno così i lìbri
oggi si muove fra ombre corte e sole a presidio
dei cortili una nuova esperta cittadina turista tra
rovìne poi avvicina figure al riparo dal calore
vede tutto testimonianza di naufragio tutto voce da
una riserva quasi mi dice che la montagna conserva
che la pianura innova solo per l'indagine mi
chiede quante volte sono andato a valle poi prova
tenerezza per le sopravvivenze apprezza bene cose
verdi e rosse sulla tavola il pane di casa anche
oh se sa essere paziente (3) il giorno ai miei
confini quando pochi sanno della sera delle
montagne più piatte del loro respiro di voci
senza pace capaci dì riempire di vita le
mie rovine

ANOTHER ONE the hundred-years old woman tells me
is looking for papers and photos of the grandparents that is
how books are made these days she learns she walks among
brief shadows and the sun that rules over gardens a new
expert city dweller tourist among the ruins she then draws
close to figures shading themselves from the heat everything
she sees witnesses the shipwreck all sound as if rising from
some reservation she says that the mountain conserves
the plains renew just for information she asks me
how often I visit the valley then she experiences tenderness
for all that endures she truly adores those red and green
things on the table even the home-baked bread oh she has
so much patience(3) the day so close to my frontiers when
very few have knowledge of the evening of the more flattened-
out mountains of their own breathing of voices without
rest able to fill full of life my own ruins

(3) Bernart de Ventadorn: "...sitot fatz de joi parvensa / mout ai dins lo cor irat..."; Italian:
" mostro parvenza di gioia/ dentro il mio cuore è dolente..." ; "If on the surface I seem happy,/
my heart hurts within..."

AL TAE 'l prát 'n agár tornât zòvin 'nte gnòt al
crôt inmò 'n tiàres de bon azèt 'ntal pòpul des
ciaràndes forsit 'e jè aghe cujete ca no' pratìnd
di rivâ al timp ca sa di no' resisti a 'e cialdùre i
forèsc' 'e àn miôr 'l ruàt pa' e sbrùme 'l romùar 'e
fuarce èncic vizìn ai granc' baràz 'e restin nòme
canàis 'e zuin a no' bagnâsi squasin a uardâsi
dal vivi 'e no si vent l'anime pa' e memorie cusì
prèst al è tant 'l timp prime di Iâ 'ndenànt 'ntal nie
miôr no' fevelâ cun chei ca son lâz vie e no'
disegnâ umign piardûz miôr ròmpi 'l cidinôr dai
pecoi parcè pa' e frutarie 'l ciant mai al è provisòri
'n cheste stagiòn sùal. 'n riû al usme 'l calùar dal
soreli d'un cîl aviàrs rivât j ù cence dibisùgne

TAGLIA il prato un colatoio ringiovanito nella
notte crede ancora in terre ospitali nel popolo
dei cespugli forse è acqua pacifica che non
pretende di raggiungere il tempo che sa di non
resistere alla calura i forestieri preferiscono il
torrente per la schiuma il rumore la forza anche
vicino ai grandi rovi rimangono solo bambini
giocano a non bagnarsi quasi ad evitare la vita
non si vende l'anima per la memoria così presto è
tanto il tempo prima di avanzare nel nulla meglio
non parlare con quelli che se ne sono andati e non
disegnare uomini perduti (4) meglio rompere il
silenzio dei pendii ché per l'infanzia il canto è mai
provvisorio in questa stagione solo un rivolo
avverte il calore del sole di un cielo ostile sceso
giù senza bisogno

A DITCH cuts through the field restored in the night
it still believes in friendly places maybe in the bush
people it is peaceful water never pretending to meet
up with time knowing it cannot resist the summer heat
the tourists prefer the swift river its foam its noise its
power even near the huge boulders they still remain kids
playing at not getting wet almost like trying to avoid
living not ready to barter the soul for some memory
so much time is still left before advancing toward nothing
better not speak with the departed and never draw those
who are lost13 it's better to shatter the silence of hill-
sides because childhood singing is never provisional
during that season only the small stream measures
the heat of the sun of a threatening sky that
arrives when not needed

(4) Guilhelm de Peitieu: " proeza e de joi fui / mas ara partem ambedui..."; Italian:
"...a fierezza e gioia appartenni/ ma ora mi separo da entrambe..."; "....once I was proud
and happy/ but now I leave both behind..."

'0 VIÓT agarìnes baràz beàrz cèntes clèves
fràtes gléries ròes ròncs zelárs
'o viót ciastelàns cimadôrs crivelârs
foladùars marangóns mìstris pastôrs
pividôrs prédis scalcs
'o viót crovàz deàns mìcui pitìns pagàns
schiràz sguerzis todèscs tosâz e uères
fòlc mi trai no vìót che un cacìt 'o viót sùal
fadiis dispès 'e muàrt

VEDO sorgenti rovi terreni erbosi recintati
salite disboscamenti ghiaie rogge
vigneti in pendio caciaie
vedo castellani cimatori crivellatori pigiatori
falegnami capimastri pastori suonatori
di cornamusa preti camerieri
vedo figure nere decàní gente mingherlina
piccola selvaggia quasi scoiattolo che guarda
irata del nord tosata e bellicosa
che mi venga un colpo non vedo che un ragazzo
vivace (5) vedo solo fatiche spesso la morte

I SEE water springs bushes grassy fields fenced-in
hillsides chopped-down woods sand pits ditches
grape vines on slopes dairies
I see land owners tree-cutters mortar mixers grape
pickers carpenters head masons shepherds bag-pipe
players priests waiters
I see those dressed in black doyen skinny people
small wild almost a squirrel looking about
angry as if from the north young girl and belligerent
May a stroke strike me down I see only a young man
full of life(5) only hard work often there's death

(5) Antonium also called Caceti / 1403. For the anthroponyms of the Spilimberg area, my two con-
tributions might be helpful: "Gotfredus qui dicitur Barellus ( Barbaciàn, Year XVIII, Number
1, August 1981) and "Hengelpretus de Regunia" (Barbaciàn, Year XVIII, Number 2, 1981).

'E NO' CIANTE pì 'ntal coro oremài plète 'e
monte su le zornade se pal pòlvar al baste l'àjar
'e no jè debolece 'l dismagasi ni 'l pleati nòme sui
tiéi trois dal ziart tu continuis a no' capî a no'
vê plui dibisùgne de storie parcè jè vonde ogni dì
'e memorie des tôs s'ciarses vendemes clâr e net
'e jè oremai plantute savie 'e mé zornade 'e sa che
pinsâ al è trimâ pûr 'e reste inmò curiose 'e si
siare sùaI sul scurî cidìne tanche 'l presìnt dai

NON CANTA più nel coro ormai curva sale la
giornata se per la polvere basta il vento non è
debolezza il disincanto nè il piegarti soltanto sui
tuoi sentieri certo continui a non capire (6) a
non aver più bisogno della storia ché è sufficiente
ogni giorno la memoria delle tue povere vendemmie
chiaramente è ormai piantina saggia la mia giornata
sa che pensare è tremare eppure resta ancora
curiosa si chiude solo al tramonto silenziosa
come il presente degli uomini

HE NO LONGER sings with the choir now daylight proceeds
in a curve if the wind is enough for the dust it is no
weakness to feel disenchantment or leaning forward along
your own path of course you continue to not understand(6)
you don't need history each day suffices remembering
your miserly harvests clearly the wise shrub for me is
each day aware that one thought is one tremor and still
it stays curious closes up only for sunset silent
like people present

(6) Ponc d'Ortafà, "Rossellonès, atestat entre 1184 I 1246" Anche uomo del nostro tempo, senza
dubbio: "...a penas sai on m'estau / ni sai d'on ven ni on vau / ni que m fauc le jorn ni l ser...";
Italian: "...a stento so dove mi trovo/ nè so da dove vengo nè dove vado/ nè cosa faccio il giorno nè
la sera..."; "...I barely know where I am now, / where did I come from or where I'm going,/nor do
I know what I'm doing each day or night..."



Let me indicate my contributions to the bilingual inquiries (including those in the Province of Pordenone, 1985 - 1986 - 1987 - 1990), which address the dialect poetry of the Italian North-East (i.e., Poetiche dialettali [Dialect Poetics], Del Bianco, Udine, 1997), as well as those of the entire Italian peninsula (i.e., Il rosa del tramonto [The Rose-colored Sunset], Campanotto Editor, Udine, 1998). Equally dear to me are the many pages of literary criticism I have written, during this past decade, for the periodical Ciàcere en trentin, for the column entitled amici di casa ["household friends"; see footnote number 1]. An updated list of critical essays on my work follows.

Manlio Cortelazzo, Il rosa del tramonto, Destini poetici dialettali ["The Rose-colored Sunset: Destiny of Dialect Poetry"], La nuova Tribuna Letteraria, A. VIII, No. 51, third trimester 1998, p. 48.

Elio Fox, Il rosa del tramonto, Luciano Zannier e la poesia dialettale al traguardo del Duemila ["The Rose-colored Sunset: Luciano Zannier and Dialect Poetry at the End of the Twentieth Century"], Ciàcere en trentin, No. 49, September 1998, p. 26-27.

Renzo Francescotti, Le poetiche dialettali di Luciano Zannier ["The Dialect Poetics of Luciano Zannier"] Ciàcere en trentin, No. 46, December 1997, p. 32-33.

Riccarda Novello, Il rosa del tramonto, voci friulane vicine e lontane ["The Rose-colored Sunset: Friuli Voices Near and Distant"], Messaggero del Lunedì, Udine, July 27, 1998, p. 5.

Giose Rimanelli, Discorso su campagna/città-dialetto/lingua ["Discourse on the Farm/City - Dialect/Language"], Conference of the American Association of Italian Studies, the Dialect Poetry Section, Chicago, Illinois, April 2-5, 1998.

Giose Rimanelli, Valigia americana. La vicina notte dialettale ["American Suitcase: The Approaching Night of Dialect"], Nuovo oggi Molise, Friday September 18, 1998, p. 13 (The Italian version, submitted to World Literature Today as "The Approaching Night of Dialect", also appeared in Ciàcere en trentin, No. 50, 1998, p.38-39).

Achille Serrao, Presunto inverno - Poesia dialettale (e dintorni) negli anni Novanta ["A Presumption of Winter - Dialect Poetry (and Other) in the Nineties"], Caramanica Editor, Marina di Minturno, (LT), 1999.

Antonello Satta Centanin (in care of), Poetiche dialettali [The Poetics of Dialect], in Poesia, No. 120, Crocetti Editore, Milano, September 1998, p. 42.

Edoardo Zuccato, Segnalazioni ["Tendencies"], in "Testo a fronte", Marcos y Marcos, Milano, No. 19, 1998, p. 243.