La Lingua Italiana
La Lingua Italiana is anything but an ordinary language. Speak in any other tongue and you are merely communicating. Speak Italian and the conversation lives and breathes with its own dynamic vitality. It is a language where the vowels and consonants perform a rhapsodic dance together- a passionate, musical language of love.
It is a food. We all know how Italians love a good meal, and this desire spills into the words. Reading a menu or a cookbook is a delicious exercise for the jaw and lips. Tortellini, gnocchi, aglio e olio, prosciutto. The words float on the tongue. Lasagna, ravioli, pesce. The mandible moves as if chewing. Cannoli, gelati, tiramisu. The mouth waters as a lubricant for the alphabet. Speaking of this rich food is the antipasto to the antipasto. And it extends to all words, not just those centered around the table. A light conversation is a snack; an intense one, a full-blown dinner. To talk is to eat is to enjoy.
It is a song. Hearing someone speak Italian from a distance is like hearing a familiar tune on the radio. It has melody, rhythm. The inflection is up and then it is down. The tone is clear, delicate. An Italian day begins and ends with this music. A crisp, perky Buongiorno on everyone’s lips in the morning. When the night falls, a gentle Buonasera is the greeting, the sera lingering a beat longer on the palate, letting you ponder the hours in between.
It is a dance. The rhythm is too strong, the melody too sweet. The head must move with the syllables, and the body cannot help but follow. The hand cups at the fingertips, the wrist becomes limp. It rocks back and forth in gentle cadence with the meter.
It is a wine. The language has gracefully aged through the centuries into a full-bodied form of expression. It has a bouquet. The patter of phrases often tickles the nose. It is smooth and robust. It often leaves you light-headed, intoxicated with terminology. Of course, it’s romantic. It’s a Romance language. Examine the root and you have Roma.
Like a rose, it too has its thorns. Cross an Italian and all the food, wine, song and dance come hurling at you. The meal turns, the song screeches, the fists rise, the wine brings nausea. There is simply no defense.
All the magic of Italy is contained within its wonderful language. One sentence can send you to heaven or hell. Purgatory is reserved for those who do not understand it.
It is a food. We all know how Italians love a good meal, and this desire spills into the words. Reading a menu or a cookbook is a delicious exercise for the jaw and lips. Tortellini, gnocchi, aglio e olio, prosciutto. The words float on the tongue. Lasagna, ravioli, pesce. The mandible moves as if chewing. Cannoli, gelati, tiramisu. The mouth waters as a lubricant for the alphabet. Speaking of this rich food is the antipasto to the antipasto. And it extends to all words, not just those centered around the table. A light conversation is a snack; an intense one, a full-blown dinner. To talk is to eat is to enjoy.
It is a song. Hearing someone speak Italian from a distance is like hearing a familiar tune on the radio. It has melody, rhythm. The inflection is up and then it is down. The tone is clear, delicate. An Italian day begins and ends with this music. A crisp, perky Buongiorno on everyone’s lips in the morning. When the night falls, a gentle Buonasera is the greeting, the sera lingering a beat longer on the palate, letting you ponder the hours in between.
It is a dance. The rhythm is too strong, the melody too sweet. The head must move with the syllables, and the body cannot help but follow. The hand cups at the fingertips, the wrist becomes limp. It rocks back and forth in gentle cadence with the meter.
It is a wine. The language has gracefully aged through the centuries into a full-bodied form of expression. It has a bouquet. The patter of phrases often tickles the nose. It is smooth and robust. It often leaves you light-headed, intoxicated with terminology. Of course, it’s romantic. It’s a Romance language. Examine the root and you have Roma.
Like a rose, it too has its thorns. Cross an Italian and all the food, wine, song and dance come hurling at you. The meal turns, the song screeches, the fists rise, the wine brings nausea. There is simply no defense.
All the magic of Italy is contained within its wonderful language. One sentence can send you to heaven or hell. Purgatory is reserved for those who do not understand it.
