Illustrated diary entries by Federico Fellini

Issue 25

November 2020

Federico Fellini is considered to be one of the most important and influential European directors of the 20th century. Although not a diarist, he did, for many years, keep a record of his dreams, with descriptions and richly-coloured illustrations. These were given a lavish publication a few years after his death, and, more recently, have been made available in digital form.

Playlist inspired by the stimulus

The Language Requirement

Guy Prevost

Townsend stepped out into the chilly air on the balcony.

The Death of Fellini & Other Poems

Eponine Howarth

Poems by Jacques Prévert translated by E.H.‍

The Puppy in the Basket in the Picture

Paul Ruta

It’s probably August, given my short-sleeve shirt and buzz cut, and my big sister’s breezy blue outfit.

Fuzzy Logic

Michael Howarth

These photographs all come from an exhibition held in Brussels, entitled “Clarity in the Mist”.

El Gordo

Leslie Wines

Sabina’s heavy, calloused feet hurt like hell.

The Sugar Line

Jim Alabaster

‘Get out. Don’t go. ’‘Which?’ Stern, stone-faced, he rolls the gauntness of his naked chest over me...

Remembering Verena

Jeanne Morel

It is the year my sister is born. / A figure teeters on stilts far / above the town.

Morpheus, Cloud and Dream

Youna Rahard-Guillaumont

In The Book of Dreams, Fellini strives to crystallise dreams in snapshots — a proof of what did exist...

Dancing with the Shadows

Yara Bazzoun

Every evening, the sandman waits patiently for Grandma above her bed.

Dinner with Proserpina

Andriana Minou

Proserpina lives on the moon. She holds a fish and a key.

Fellini’s nightmares and 8 ½

Nacho Oliden

By the time Fellini was working on 8 ½, he couldn’t decide what the protagonist did for a living...

The Existential Angst of Film Music

Vasiliki Poula

There might be something inherently paradoxical about the presence of music in films...

23rd June, 1974 - A Day in the life of Fellini

Konstantinos Doxiadis

It’s night-time. What an awful night. I am driving a black car that’s racing dizzyingly down a path that spirals...

Cotton and Visitation

Richard W. Halperin

My mother, our first night in New York, / pointed to a pillowcase on my hotel bed.

Strains

Allison A. deFreese

If we can now freeze genes, / why not write a book of snow / on a field lain fallow / and read it / to pumpkin seeds

Renversé

Irina Hrinoschi

It's the woman's decision in the end, he thought, but it's not fair. She had told him she wanted children.

Backstage, 1905

Albe Harlow

“Sweat does not ‘bead on foreheads.’ It does not form “lit-tle ri-vu-lets.’

My Mother's Death

Jakob Brønnum

‍I never really knew my mother. She was born in Berlin in 1922.

This issue was brought to you with the gracious support of our Patreons:

Colby Torbett

Aisenour Bitsen

Dorina Papaliou

Zoe Bell

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