![]() ![]() Only the historic centre of Malo remains almost intact, though perhaps in the past you could at least get a coffee on Saturday afternoon. As stated in the Strategic Evaluation of 2010, it appears as “almost a single urban entity, morphologically autonomous”. Rather than being in the province of Vicenza, you feel you are in some vague region between Romagna and Tajikistan. Those houses whose proportions Meneghello saw as the dimension of “otherworldly spheres that have more meaning than can be expressed and should be transcribed in a Neoplatonic key” are today villas in the other two hamlets of Case di Malo to the north, near the boundary with the town of San Vito di Leguzzano, and Molina to the east, near Thiene. Even San Tomio, one of the three hamlets that now make part of Malo, has become “a single urban entity in morphological-developmental terms, united by the commercial strip along the SP46”. But today all that has been replaced by “urban consolidation”, as defined by the Veneto Region’s Environmental and Strategic Evaluation.įrom Meneghello’s Malo to the Malo of today, the municipality’s 30 square kilometres have become “like a region where there is no clear distinction between the built-up areas, which sprawl seamlessly along the SP46 highway”. ![]() The only difference, perhaps, is that Meneghello explained the people and culture of upper Vicenza between the 1930s and 1960s, recounting the shadows cast on the houses, the pattern of the streets and doors, and “the shape of the sounds and these thoughts. There he taught Italian, abandoning Malo to a destiny without redemption. His prayer was answered, since he fled to Reading, England, to heal his spirit. on an ordinary winter Saturday in Malo, Meneghello’s birthplace made famous by his first book Libera nos a malo (1963, Deliver Us). Not in the house with large windows after the second roundabout. Here, bypassing a basement garage that is really an extension of the burial niches, I reach the tombstone of Luigi Meneghello and his wife Katia Bleier. None of the postmodern villas is actually the work of the innocent surveyor, whose oval office is shielded behind a high hedge opposite the Umberto I-era cemetery. A villa in pure Kazakh style, it sits among others that Balkanise the urban plan of this perfectly metaphysical province. We’re in front of the garden of I piccoli maestri (1964, The Outlaws) – a sublime but horrifying fresco of a partisan adolescence – and Casabianca, a 19th-century building turned museum of graphic art, its neglect reflected in the glass cube of an insurance agency. The shutters are all white, and so is all the furniture.”Īfter asking directions from two girls, who barely knew north from south, and two middle-aged men who just shook their heads, the owner of the building with white furnishings in her kindness can be excused for confusing the writer Meneghello with the surveyor Meneguzzo. I know because he built the place where I live. It’s worth it.” His wife? “He was a wonderful surveyor.” The lady’s kindness is overwhelming. If you want to see where he lived, go further up. “Of course, this is the house where he was born. ![]()
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