Travelling in my opinion…

The pleasure (and privilege) of a conversation with Claudio Magris is truly unique.
Brilliant and volcanic, he is a master story-teller eagerly lacing and spicing his rich conversation with images, anecdotes, quotations and recollections. His speed of delivery is hypnotic. Its effect is like that of a musical score requiring the listener to attend the performance with a head and heart perfectly tuned in to each other so as not to miss any of the nuances.
By Anna Adriani

We asked the author of Danubio and Microcosmi what his thoughts are on travelling and crossing borders.
“To me these topics are first and foremost about life itself. I firmly believe that to live and to travel are one and the same thing. Whatever I do, even the simplest thing, entails crossing borders, even if only mere boundary-lines. To enter into my son’s room across the threshold of the doorway is to enter into his world. Returning to my childhood home not only entails moving through space but also crossing the threshold of time.
From Homer to Joyce the great mythical story of Ulysses is that of a traveller whose pursuit of all that which is other than himself is clearly an existential pursuit, a metaphor of self-denial followed by self-discovery. The route travelled along is that of life itself that leads back to Ithaca, the final destination being nothing less than the point of departure! To me writing itself is like a journey in which the world undergoes continuous deconstruction and reconstruction by the writer. For like a stage manager, albeit in this case the stage is life itself, the writer has to decide on what is to be foregrounded and what is to be left in the background”.

And what about travelling in a physical sense, moving about from one place to another, to somewhere that’s often unfamiliar? What are your views about that?
“I’ve never really shared the escapist view of travelling. As I see it the traveller lives a condition of irresponsibility, of cruelty even.
Let me explain. When travelling in a place where local custom contemplates, let’s say, cutting off the offending hand of a thief or stoning for adultery the traveller may feel sorry, distress even, for those upon whom such punishment befalls. But as a rule there’s nothing she or he can personally do about it. The traveller simply passes by and moves on — that’s all. And that amounts to being cruel and irresponsible. For even under such circumstances if not to the law of an eye-for-an-eye the traveller is in a way still accountable and yet not directly answerable to those of his homeland he has left behind! It is only in this sense that travelling entails evading one’s responsibilities. What I particularly appreciate about travelling is the sense of carefree buoyancy and precariousness that come with it. You can’t take along any real property and you’re practically a nobody; that’s what I like most.
When I get to a new hotel, for instance, I enjoy the opportunity the wholly alien surroundings afford me of giving them a personal touch, something that reminds me of home. I always take along with me several family pictures; I hang up my clothing in the wardrobe the same as I do back home… But of course I’m also well aware that the room I’m temporarily occupying is not my own; someone else will be in it the night after. Essentially I reckon it would be perfect to be able to go through life the same way one travels: light-weight”.

Travelling also entails meeting people.
“True. That’s why, for instance, I never say “I’m going to France” but “I’m off to see the French”.
Travelling is indeed essentially about meeting people. And quite often these encounters are memorable. I vividly recall an incident that occurred to me some time ago when visiting a museum in Barcelona. There was this man, the father of a boy with the Down syndrome. They’d stop a few moments in front of each painting and he’d tell the boy who the painter was and what the picture was about. The deep feeling of love for his child that the man was able to convey was overwhelming. Then the man lent forward before one of the pictures to better read the painter’s name. As he stood back up he respectfully took off his hat and turning to his son exclaimed: ‘Velasquez!’. Well, that’s exactly the kind of person I’d want to be like”.