It is with immense pleasure and deep emotion that the Commission publishes here the essay on Humor that Angelo Pupino wrote in the last months of his life, motivated by his firm desire to make his own scientific contribution to the National Edition. The necessary introduction is by the new President of the Commission, Prof. Aldo Morace, Pupino's long-time colleague and great friend.
It had been a few years—shortly after his health had deteriorated, forcing him to stay at home—that Angelo had expressed his desire to publish his contribution on Pirandello on the website of the Edizione Nazionale, of which he had been president until the end, authoritative for the studies he had produced, substantially renewing the perspective of reading, and loved for the elegance with which he carried out his duties and for the empathy he was able to inspire, succeeding like a great coach in getting the best out of his team.
But his health had gone, between amazing recoveries, when the situation seemed hopeless, and timely deteriorations. However, he continued to talk to me about this contribution, which he felt he had to write in order to honor his position as President and as the testamentary fruit of a prestigious career as a scholar, without ever revealing to me the subject he had in mind and on which he said he was working on the days when his illness allowed him to do so.
I no longer believed that he would be able to complete the task he had set himself. I saw and felt that his working hours were becoming increasingly scarce, as was the lucidity that a scholar of his caliber must have in order to produce a study worthy of his fame. Angelo was indeed a scholar of great breadth, refinement, and depth, with D'Annunzio and, above all, Pirandello as his favorite authors of the last century.
I spoke to him on the phone almost every week: an intensely friendly conversation that neither of us wanted to give up. To our mutual delight, about a month ago he announced that he had finished his work, which focused on rethinking what he had written about Pirandello's humor. As usual, he wanted me to read it and give him an unbiased opinion, as we always did for each other, and to make some corrections, highlighting them in yellow so that he could decide whether or not to accept them.
I did so immediately, with amazement and wonder. I was reading a very complex and important text, which I did not think he was capable of producing: he had managed to write it, reworking what he had produced over many years, but also introducing new interpretations, new references, and new contributions from the most recent (and not so recent) criticism.
I called him immediately: I was incredulous and stunned. I gratified him by expressing my admiration for this unexpected fruit, which we felt was the last; and I sent it back to him, with small corrections and additions duly marked in yellow.
Two weeks ago, he called me to say that he couldn't bring himself to review the essay in light of my comments and to dismiss it. He begged me to edit it myself and publish it on the digital edition website. I did so, announcing that I would visit him (as I always did when I was in Rome) during the meeting of the National Edition Commission, which took place on September 21, during which I would announce the launch of his study, submitting it for publication, as indeed happened.
The visit was painful: Angelo was now in very serious physical condition, but lucid, so lucid that he could gauge the irreversible deterioration and converse, albeit with difficulty. I summarized the meeting for him, as I usually did in his absence, and, overcoming his resistance, I read him the agenda for his approval. The National Edition was his pride and joy: he had devoted himself entirely to its creation, even when illness had confined him to his home. I immediately told him that I had shared the news of his writing and gave him the happy surprise that all the members had expressed after hearing my admiring preview.
He struggled to stay lucid and pay attention. I noticed this, but I sensed that I would never see him again and, foolishly, I continued to stay by his bedside and talk to him. Then I said goodbye, and his last words were a farewell to the person dearest to me after the loss of my wife: a wound that continues to bleed more than ever, despite the fact that the time of separation, only physical, continues to accumulate.
Then came the message from Violina, his beloved wife, who had brightened the last thirty years of his life and who, in these almost three years of suffering, had given herself to him with total love: “My Angel is gone.” At 7:30 a.m. on September 25. He had flown away from all of us, but especially from me, because he was my dearest friend.
What remains are memories, sudden flashes that strike you every day, several times a day: the warmth of a forty-year friendship, born in the shadow of the same adoptive father, Gianvito Resta, and lived without ever a conflict, a cloud, as too often happens in the academic world.
What remains are his many critical pages, always elegantly written, as was his character, elegant and charming. I can say without exaggeration that Angelo has traversed the recent history of Italian studies, leaving a deep mark on all the subjects he studied.
All this remains. But also a void: unbridgeable for those who were closest to him. For almost a lifetime.