Zena Roncada
About:
She lives in the lowest part of the Po plain, among poplars and fog. For a lifetime she has taught and written literature anthologies for schools. Her recent publications include: Margini (Pentàgora, 2013); Qui come altrove (Effigie, 2016); the short stories published by Fuocofuochino (2015, 2017); Le bambine (Pentàgora, 2019).
Il cuore delle formiche : Romanzo di piccole vite sul filo del ‘900 / Zena Roncada. – Minceto | Ge : Temposospeso, 2023. – 322 p. ; 19,5 cm. – (Temposospeso ; 1). – isbn 979-12-81467-00-2.
Why we propose to publish this book:
The Heart of the Ants” is not only based on a (true) family story, and therefore easily imaginable, but is also rooted in the author’s in-depth study of the Italian black period, cast in the reality of the people who lived it every day. The result is a dense literary work, divided into many short chapters, profound, but in which pain never turns into resentment. The author’s language is peculiar, rich in vocabulary, finely chiselled, which, over and above the story, leads to a unique experience for lovers of fine literature.
THE HEART OF ANTS
A novel of (un)common person’s life in the early 20th century. Based on true stories !
Abstract:
A horseshoe-shaped town of fields and mist on the banks of the river Po. Inside the town, a community crossed by fascism and war. Inside the community, two families, the Buneet and the Bigin; old and young, men and women, who love, work, suffer, intertwining their destinies. They cultivate a sense of the good and the just, while life becomes narrow and black: like ants immersed in a great history, they carry on ideas, passions and choices born from respect for life and become Resistance. Proof that each crumb can play its part. Inspired by a true story.
A look into the book:
‘It was to be expected, the melancholy, coming like winter sparrows, in the dense soot of a chimney: dark dust on the walls and a rolling of quarrelsome wings, to silence. Or like mist melted in the glass. It doesn’t matter if it was spring: for il is a moment that grief holds on, climbs up the flap, becomes a frame for the window. It is not honeysuckle: it puts on its thorns, without the smell of milk or honey. ‘ p.58.