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D'Annunzio, in one of his famous addresses in May, 1915, put this feeling into words: "We will no longer be a museum of antiquities, a kind of hostelry, a pleasure resort, under a sky painted over with Prussian blue, for the benefit of international honeymooners."
James on M. Paul Bourget, of M. Bourget on Signor d'Annunzio; and yet there is no denying that Richardson is radically English, that Turgenieff is thoroly Russian, and that d'Annunzio is unquestionably Italian.
Ease and passivity were a torture to him. A picture of life is painted by that wonderful artist, Gabrielle d'Annunzio, in "The Triumph of Death." Yes, I hear the hurtling of such missles as "decadent," "obscene," "vulgar," "impious." Nevertheless d'Annunzio is one of the great masters. His pigments may be mud or muck. His brush is the brush of an Angelo.
But with a censor whose sympathies were too purely literary, literary in too narrow a sense, would not scruples of some other kind begin to intrude themselves, scruples of the student who cannot tolerate an innocent jesting with "serious" things, scruples of the moralist who must choose between Maeterlinck and d'Annunzio, between Tolstoi and Ibsen?
A poet of genius, who even before the war had been an aviator, Gabriele d'Annunzio, has described in his novel, Forse che si forse che no, the friendship of two young men, Paolo Tarsis and Giulio Cambasio, whose mutual affection, arising from a similar longing to conquer the sky, has grown in the perils they dare together.
Men who see the short cut to good living will never go by the new elaborate roads." "Well, to me Marconi, or D'Annunzio, is the star of Italy" said the other. "That is why I have become a Futurist and a courier." "A courier!" cried Muscari, laughing. "Is that the last of your list of trades? And whom are you conducting?" "Oh, a man of the name of Harrogate, and his family, I believe."
The patron saint of the city is, appropriately enough, St. He is a very picturesque and interesting figure, is Gabriele d'Annunzio very much in earnest, wholly sincere, but fanatical, egotistical, intolerant of the rights or opinions of others, a visionary, and perhaps a little mad.
But an Italian only cares about the emotion. It is the movement, the physical effect of the language upon the blood which gives him supreme satisfaction. His mind is scarcely engaged at all. He is like a child, hearing and feeling without understanding. It is the sensuous gratification he asks for. Which is why D'Annunzio is a god in Italy.
The entire chamber, and all those occupying the other tribunes, rose and applauded for five minutes, crying "Viva D'Annunzio!" Later thousands sent him their cards and in return received his autograph bearing the date of this eventful day. Señor Marcora, President of the Chamber, took his place at three o'clock.
They thought of him when they were successful, referred to him as a model, found an incentive in his memory, that was all. Their grief over his loss was virile and invigorating. After watching his friend's body through the night, the hero of d'Annunzio goes to the aërodrome where the next trials for altitude are to take place. He cannot think of robbing the dead man of his victory.
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