Stories with Pictures

A masterful collection about intimacy, loneliness, and time, each inspired by different works of art, spanning the entirety of the great Italian writer's career.

In Stories with Pictures, Antonio Tabucchi responds to photographs, drawings, and paintings from his dual homelands of Italy and Portugal, among other European countries. The stories in this collection spring forth from the shadows of Tabucchi's imagination, as he steps into worlds just hidden from view. From inscrutable masks of pre-Columbian gods, stamps of bright parrots and postcars of yellow cities, portraits of devilish Portuguese nuns, the way to these remote landscapes appear like a "train emerging from a thick curtain of heat." As we peer through the curtain, what we find on the other side rings distinctly human, a world charged with melancholic longing for time gone by. "Sight, hearing, voice, word" Tabucchi writes, "this flow isn't in one direction, the current is back and forth." Reading these stories, one feels the pendulum current, and the desire in this remarkable author to hold the real in the surreal."Stories With Pictures blazes with a love of color, light and the ineffable glory of the visible world . . . Each short item, translated with a glowing verbal palette of her own by Elizabeth Harris, responds to a single artwork via different forms . . . [Tabucchi] rejects the idea that we must choose between illusion and reality. Art, though his lens, escapes “the binary universe to which Nature compels us.” . . . If Tabucchi’s terrace looks out into art’s wide blue yonder, it also frames a mirror to the soul." - Boyd Tonkin, The Wall Street Journal

"Tabucchi's stories...drip with longing and too, with a dreamlike quality that is tempting to characterize as magical realism. In these stories, the world as we know it and its author's "shadow world" are often indistinguishable - to the reader's great benefit." - Thrillist, Best Books of 2019
 
"Tabucchi is a master of the form in imagination, beauty, scope, and scale even at the tiniest calibration." - Kerri Arsenault, Lit Hub

"Harris’s translation skillfully renders into English Tabucchi’s lyricism . . . . These frequently hypothesizing, fantastical works explore questions that remain urgently relevant, including ones about borders, national identity, and access to knowledge." -Saskia Ziolkowski, Reading in Translation

"[Tabucchi's] prose creates a deep, near-profound and sometimes heart-wrenching nostalgia and constantly evokes the pain of recognizing the speed of life's passing which everyone knows but few have the strength to accept...Wonderfully thought provoking and beautiful." - Alan Cheuse, NPR's All Things Considered

"There is in Tabucchi's stories the touch of the true magician, who astonishes us by never trying too hard for his subtle, elusive, and remarkable effects." - The San Francisco Examiner

"[Tabucchi] has written a masterpiece collection . . . Stories with Pictures is a book for artists and art-lovers of all mediums . . . Each [piece] seems to say something new and important about life and the often-unnoticed impact that art, in any form, has in shaping us." - The Arkansas International


"In her deft, lyrical translation, Elizabeth Harris captures the multi-layered complexity of Tabucchi's prose, from Joycean rapture to darker musings, in a novel that is once a tribute to experimental narrative and a meditation on Contemporary Italy." - Michael F. Moore, Chair of the PEN/Heim Translation Fund

"Tabucchi's writing is, above all, an artifice, a self-referring stem whose decodification demands a previous knowledge of the intellectual and artistic coordinates of the writer. Tabucchi is one of the most careful observers and original interpreters of the narrative and esthetic tendencies which emerged in Europe during the last two decades." - Anthony Costantini, World Literature Today

"Tabucchi is always a disturbing writer. He understands that life (and art) is filled with plots, omens, secrets." - Irving Malin, Review of Contemporary Fiction

"Antonio Tabucchi is one of the leading European writers, a man whose new works are eagerly anticipated, and who is widely translated across the continent and beyond. An Italian whose second home is Portugal he writes elegant and clever little books, stories and short novels that are deceptively simple yet manage to pack a great deal in relatively few pages." - The Complete ReviewAntonio Tabucchi was born in Pisa in 1943 and died in Lisbon in 2012. A master of short fiction, he won the Prix Médicis Étranger for Indian Nocturne, the Italian PEN Prize for Requiem: A Hallucination, the Aristeion European Literature Prize for Pereira Declares, and was named a Cheavlier des Artes et des Lettres by the French Government. Together with his wife, Maria José de Lancastre, Tabucchi translated much of the work of Fernando Pessoa into Italian. Tabucchi's works include The Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico (Archipelago), The Woman of Porto Pim (Archipelago), Little Misunderstandings of No Importance, Letter from Casablanca, and The Edge of the Horizon (all from New Directions). About the Translator: Elizabeth Harris translates contemporary Italian fiction. Her translated books include mario Rigoni Stern's novel Giacomo's Seasons, Giulio Mozzi's story collection This is the Garden, and Antonio Tabucchi's novels Tristiano Dies and For Isabel: A Mandala (both Archipelago books). For her various translations of Tabucchi, she has won a PEN/Heim Translation Fund Grant, The Italian Prose in Translation Award, an NEA Translation Fellowship, and the National Translation Award.So Long
And who would get postcards? Thinking about it, he wondered if he should make a list,
because once you reach your destination, you always forget. He found a sheet of paper in the
desk, sat down, and started coming up with names and addresses. He lit a cigarette. He’d write
down a name, think it over, take a drag of his cigarette, and write down another. After he
finished, he copied the names into his datebook and tore up the paper. He set the datebook on
top of his shirts, in his open suitcase. He looked around, studying the room, like he was trying
to remember what he might’ve forgotten—it was going to be a long trip. Then he remembered
the postcards he’d bought in an art gallery and left on the bookshelf. He started sorting through
them, to see if they might work for this upcoming trip. Not really, he told himself, they don’t
really work, what’s a postcard of the Marches got to do with South America? But then he also
thought how nice the stamps would look; in Peru, for instance, he’d buy stamps with parrots,
there had to be stamps with parrots in Peru, plus stamps with faces of pre-Columbian gods,
smiling, inscrutable masks, masks of gold or glazed enamel—he’d seen an exhibit once at
Palazzo Reale—there had to be stamps of those places, too. Actually, he liked the idea, because
typical tourist postcards were so ugly, the colors always too bright, fake colors, and all the cards
alike, whether they came from Mexico or Germany. So this was far more original: a postcard
with “from Ascoli” written on it when it came from Oaxaca or Yucatán or Chapultepec (was
that it?)— these names of places where he’d go.
Where he should have gone with Isabel, if she were still here. But she wasn’t, she was
gone before they could. For fifteen years, they thought about that trip, but it wasn’t a trip you
could take just like that, especially for two people in their profession. It took time, availability,
money—all things that weren’t there before. Now they were, but Isabel wasn’t. He went to the
desk, found a picture of Isabel and set it in his suitcase, beside the datebook and the postcards.
It was a picture of them, arms linked, standing in San Marco Piazza in Venice, surrounded by
pigeons, with vaguely stupid smiles on their faces, like people smile for the camera. Were we
happy? he thought. And he recalled how Isabel took his hand on the boat taxi and whispered:
“Well, if we can’t get to South America right now, at least we’re in Venice.”
Odd when pictures lie flat: he and Isabel, surrounded by pigeons, with San Marco
below, and them staring up at the ceiling. It bothered him, their eyes in that picture, staring up
at the ceiling, so he turned the picture over and said: “I’m taking you along, Isabel, you’re going
on this trip, too, we’ll travel all over the place, Mexico, Colombia, Peru, and we’ll have a great
time and write postcards, and I’ll sign them for us both; I’ll sign your name, too, it’ll be just like
you’re with me—no—you will be with me, because as you well know, I always take you along.”
He quickly added up the things left to do; the last things, he thought, feeling like
someone who wouldn’t be coming back. And all at once, he understood that he wouldn’t be
coming back, that he’d never set foot inside this apartment again, this apartment where he’d
spent almost his entire life longing to be in exotic places with mysterious names like Yucatán
and Oaxaca. He shut off the gas valve, the water valve, switched off the circuit breaker, closed
the shutters. Standing by the windows, he realized how hot it was. Of course—it was August
fifteenth. And he thought that he’d chosen a perfect day to leave, a day when everyone was on
vacation, crowded onto the beaches, everyone far away, gone from the cities, packed together
like ants taking over a little sand.
It was nearly one, but he wasn’t hungry. Even if he had been up since seven and only
drunk coffee. His train was at two thirty—plenty of time. He picked out a card with “Robinson
Island” on the front, and on the back he wrote: We’re on Timultopec, a small island where Robinson
could easily have been shipwrecked, never been happier, yours, Taddeo and Isabel. He signed himself,
“Taddeo,” which no one called him, but it was his baptism name, it just came to him. And then
he wondered who he’d send the card to. But there was time for that. And then he chose another,
one with some towers, and on the back he wrote: This is the Machu Picchu mountain range, the
air’s incredible here, so long, Taddeo and Isabel. Then he found another, one that was entirely blue,
and on the back he wrote: This is the blue we’re living, a blue ocean, a blue sky, a blue life. Then he
found one with a church, maybe Santa Maria Novella, and on the back he wrote: The South
American baroque, a copy of Europe’s, but vaguer, more visionary, love, Taddeo and Isabel.
He wondered if he should bother trying to get a taxi, or if he should just take the bus.
The station was only three stops away, and considering what day it was, he might be on the
phone a good twenty minutes trying to call for a taxi; this really wasn’t the day for a taxi, there
weren’t any—there wasn’t even a car—the city was completely deserted. He spread a
handkerchief over the picture and the postcards and carefully closed the suitcase. He looked
around another time. He drew the blinds, patted his back pocket to check for his wallet, and
headed down the hall, to the entranceway. At the door he set his suitcase on the floor a
moment and said out loud: “See you later, home. No—goodbye.”
In the shade of the bus shelter, it wasn’t so bad, though the street was dissolving into
shiny puddles. At least there was a slight breeze, some relief. When he got off at the train
station, he thought he might faint. But only for a moment—he felt dizzy for a moment—it was
the blazing heat, of course, radiating off the stones, and the dazzling light, a light without
shadow, because the sun was at its peak. The station clock read two. The lobby was deserted.
Only one ticket counter was open, he got his ticket and looked around for a newspaper kiosk,
but the kiosk was closed. His suitcase certainly felt light. For such a long trip, he’d only brought
along the bare essentials, the rest he’d buy a little at a time, in the countries he’d visit, when the
opportunity or need arose. He glanced into the first-class waiting room, also deserted, he
paused, considering, but the air was suffocating. Maybe the underpass is cooler, he told himself,
or maybe there’s at least a breeze under the platform roof. He walked slowly through the
underpass, congratulating himself that his suitcase was so light, and he climbed the stairs to
track three. It was completely deserted. No, the entire station was deserted, not one passenger.
He noticed a small boy in a white shirt sitting on a bench, a carrying case of gelato slung over
his shoulder. The boy saw him, too, and rose, wearily shifted his case, and started toward him.
When he was closer, he said: “You want a gelato, signore?” The man told him no thanks; and
the boy took off his white cap and wiped his forehead.
“I shouldn’t have bothered coming today,” he said.
“You haven’t sold much?”