Il Postino Page #2

So when I get paid,

I'll go to Naples...

and show all the girls...

that I'm a friend of Neruda,

the poet of love!

The poet of the people!

Excuse me, couId you sign it?

PIease, couId you sign it?

Would you make

it unique, maestro?

Would you make

it unique, maestro?

My name's Mario Ruoppolo.

- And my mail?

- There isn't any.

Come on, Mario, you should be happy.

Happy?

I told him quite cIearly,

Mario Ruoppolo.

''Regards, Pablo Neruda.''

It means nothing.

You don't think he can cross

it out and write it better...

so you can see it's for me,

that we're friends?

Do you think he'd cross it out

because you don't like it...

and write you another?

Perhaps he did it on purpose

because you bothered him.

No, I asked him.

He was staring at the mountain.

- Exactly, you see?

- No, I know the mountain...

but he was holding an onion.

So you think a poet can't think

when he's holding an onion, eh?

When am I supposed

to ask him then...

if I can't ask him

when he's peeling an onion?

He's a busy man.

He can't be running after people

to make them happy.

Yes, but he's a communist.

So what?

Didn't you say that

communists love the people?

Mario, don't make me annoyed!

I bought a copy of the book.

When you have the chance...

with extreme tact...

ask him if he would sign it for me.

Sign it?

Take this one then.

''Regards, PabIo Neruda.''

No, this is yours.

He signed it for you.

- I'm happy to let you have it.

- No!

Mr. Di Cosimo, shall

I empty all the water?

All of it, all of it.

'Morning.

Mr. Di Cosimo...

what can I do to thank you?

Your wreath was the nicest.

Nothing, Donna Rosa.

Just vote and get others to vote.

Remember to use

that llttIe pencil of yours.

And hopefully some

of your customers will, too.

''...happens that I go into the

tallors' shops and the movies...

all shriveled up...

impenetrable, llke a felt swan...

navigating on a water

of origin and ash.

The smell of barber shops

makes me sob out loud...

I am tired of being a man...''

Mail.

What's the matter?

Don Pablo?

You're standing

as stiff as a post!

Nailed like a spear?

No, immobile like the castle

on a chess board.

Stiller than a porcelain cat.

Elementary Odes isn't

the only book I've written.

I've written much better.

It's unfair of you to shower me

with similes and metaphors.

Don Pablo?

Metaphors.

What are those?

Metaphors?

Metaphors are--

How can I explain?

When you talk of something,

comparing it to another.

Is it something...

you use in poetry?

Yes, that too.

For example?

For exampIe...

when you say, ''the sky weeps,''

what do you mean?

That it's raining.

Yes, very good.

- That's a metaphor.

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