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. (See
chapter 85 "Hand Gestures") 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
Of course, it's romantic. It's a Romance language. Examine
the root and you have Roma. Like a rose, it, too, has its thorn. 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.