Un’amica mi manda questa risposta al post di ieri, “Le fatiche della donna creativa<\/a>“:<\/p>\n
| Margaret Fuller Slack\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I WOULD have been as great as George Eliot \nBut for an untoward fate. \nFor look at the photograph of me made by Penniwit, \nChin resting on hand, and deep–set eyes– \nGray, too, and far-searching. \nBut there was the old, old problem: \nShould it be celibacy, matrimony or unchastity? \nThen John Slack, the rich druggist, wooed me, \nLuring me with the promise of leisure for my novel, \nAnd I married him, giving birth to eight children, \nAnd had no time to write. \nIt was all over with me, anyway, \nWhen I ran the needle in my hand \nWhile washing the baby’s things, \nAnd died from lock–jaw, an ironical death. \nHear me, ambitious souls, \nSex is the curse of life.<\/td>\n | Margaret Fuller Slack\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0SAREI STATA grande come George Eliot \nSe non per un fatto funesto. \nMa guardate la foto di me fatta dal Penniwit, \nMento appoggiato sulla mano, occhi profondamente fissi \nGrigi, pure, e lungimiranti. \nMa c’era il solito, vecchio problema: \nChe sia celibato, matrimonio o lussuria? \nPoi John Slack, il ricco farmacista, mi chiese in matrimonio, \nAllettandomi con la promessa di tranquillit\u00e0 per il mio romanzo, \nE lo sposai, mettendo al mondo otto figli, \nE non ebbi tempo per scrivere. \nComunque era gi\u00e0 finita per me \nQuando conficcai l’ago nella mia mano \nMentre lavavo le cose del beb\u00e8, \nE morii di tetano, una morte ironica. \nDatemi retta, anime ambiziose, \nil genere \u00e8 la sventura della vita!<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n |
| Testo originale inglese, da progetto Gutenberg <\/a><\/td>\n | Nostra traduzione maldestra<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n |
| \u00a0Da\u00a0Spoon River Anthology<\/em> di Edgar Lee Masters<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n |