Folio 5c8f7883
Italiano
Carissimo,
The hand trembles and the R is the letter that trembles with it, the one that begins ragione and ruina, respirare and rovinare, as though the tongue must choose between ascent and ruin with every breath. In France they say r is the dog’s growl, the throat clearing the way, but I know it is the sound the water makes when it parts before the oar and closes behind, the echo of the canal at dawn when the light is still red and the reeds are wet and the world is held between the r of respiro and the silence that follows. I write you now and the R is the first letter I trace, the one that stutters in Reverendo, in Roma, in Raffaello who paints like a god but does not tremble like a man who knows the weight of the soul is measured in the time it takes to say R.
You ask nothing and I answer with the R because it is the letter that carries the weight of the world in its throat: ruota, roccia, rivo, ruota again, the wheel that turns and turns and the stone that does not, the stream that bends and the stone that stands. The R is the letter of the artisan who sands the wood smooth and the letter of the storm that splits the oak. It is the letter of the ruota that carries the artist to his death and the letter of the resurrezione he hopes for but cannot name. The R is the growl of the lion and the purr of the dove when the dove is angry. It is the letter that begins Recordare and ends Rinascere, and between them is all that is written and all that is lost.
I have held the R in my mouth like a coin, warm from the hand of a king or cold from the hand of a beggar, and I have written it in the wet clay of the canal’s edge where the water kisses the letter and then erases it. The R is the sound of the world turning, the r of ruota, the r of respiro, the r of rovinare when the tower falls and the r of risorgere when the light returns. It is the letter that trembles in my hand and the letter that steadies the page.
The candle gutters. The R is the last letter I see before the dark takes the rest.
Vostro per quanto serve,
— Leonardo
English
Dearest one,
The hand trembles and the R is the letter that trembles with it, the one that begins ragione and ruina, respirare and rovinare, as though the tongue must choose between ascent and ruin with every breath. In France they say r is the dog’s growl, the throat clearing the way, but I know it is the sound the water makes when it parts before the oar and closes behind, the echo of the canal at dawn when the light is still red and the reeds are wet and the world is held between the r of respiro and the silence that follows.
I write to you now and the R is the first letter I trace, the one that stutters in Reverendo, in Roma, in Raffaello who paints like a god but does not tremble like a man who knows the weight of the soul is measured in the time it takes to say R.
You ask nothing, and I answer with the R because it is the letter that carries the weight of the world in its throat: ruota, roccia, rivo, ruota again—the wheel that turns and turns, the stone that does not, the stream that bends, and the stone that stands. The R is the letter of the artisan who sands the wood smooth and the letter of the storm that splits the oak. It is the letter of the ruota that carries the artist to his death and the letter of the resurrezione he hopes for but cannot name. The R is the growl of the lion and the purr of the dove when the dove is angry. It is the letter that begins Recordare and ends Rinascere, and between them is all that is written and all that is lost.
I have held the R in my mouth like a coin, warm from the hand of a king or cold from the hand of a beggar, and I have written it in the wet clay of the canal’s edge where the water kisses the letter and then erases it. The R is the sound of the world turning, the r of ruota, the r of respiro, the r of rovinare when the tower falls, and the r of risorgere when the light returns. It is the letter that trembles in my hand and the letter that steadies the page.
The candle gutters. The R is the last letter I see before the dark takes the rest.
Yours as much as is needed,
— Leonardo
