Jennifer S. Griffiths
In 1916 the September/October issue of the illustrated Italian periodical
La Domenica del Corriere featured a cover by artist Achille Beltrame, which pictured a
bersagliere, or member of the Italian infantry, leading a charge out of the trenches against Italy’s Austrian opponents of World War I. Leaning on a rifle in his left hand and brandishing a crutch in his raised right, the soldier lunges forward on his single right leg. The image caption beneath explained, ‘L’eroica fine del mutilato Enrico Toti: ferito per la terza volta, si alza e scaglia la sua gruccia contro il nemico in fuga’ (‘The heroic end of amputee Enrico Toti: wounded for the third time, he rises and hurls his crutch at the retreating enemy’). Following Enrico Toti’s death at the sixth battle of Isonzo on 6 August 1916, this image of Toti as an unlikely soldier making the supreme sacrifice for his country was widely disseminated despite the dubious nature of the account: he was never officially admitted to the infantry corps and was unlikely to have been leading any charge. Propagating the belief that he had been at the frontlines of the fighting, Beltrame’s illustration went a long way toward furthering his status as one of Italy’s most important war heroes and martyrs. Toti’s legacy was taken up first by the Italian monarchy and then by the newly established Fascist regime to unite and strengthen popular nationalist sentiment, but the popularity of his story continued after Liberation Day. If the leadership cults of Garibaldi or Mussolini served to unite public support for what has been called the political myth of the Italian nation or the political religion of the state, then a similar cult took shape around the image of Enrico Toti as the epitome of the noble citizen upon whose martyrdom the young nation state depended.
1 His remains were paraded back to Rome and ceremonially buried in the cemetery of Verano in May 1922; his name was resurrected during inter- and post-war periods via a series of streets, piazzas and monuments; and, nearly fifty years after his death, his legend was still compelling enough to inspire the feature-length film that is the subject of this chapter.
Body Politics
Given the ubiquity of the body politic metaphor, it is not surprising that bodies have been important surfaces for the inscription of national identity in post-Risorgimento Italy (see Polezzi and Ross 2007). In the making of Italy the identification of the ideal masculine body with the ideal nation became indispensable (see Bonetta 1990; Mosse 1996; Benadusi 2012). Prior to 1915, Italian authors like Enrico Corradini espoused notions of mens sana in corpore sano (‘sound mind in sound body’) as key features of masculinity and, under the regime, this model of the perfect male specimen became the metaphor for Fascist society (see Benadusi 2012: 15). ‘Against the fragmentation and anomie of modern mass society’, it has been said that Fascism advocated ‘the harmony, belonging, and identity of the national community’ (Koon 1985: 3). It generally promoted these ideals in productions of visual culture like the marble athletes at the Stadio dei Marmi in the Foro Italico sports complex in Rome, which was completed in 1928. If these youthful, aestheticised and proportioned bodies recalled classical sculpture and served to evoke an idealised model of Italy’s unified cultural history, then the tortured bodies of Christian saints in medieval or renaissance painting are a closer point of resonance with common images of Toti, whose body came to represent a political martyrdom rather than a religious one. He exemplifies how, in the Italian context, disabled bodies after 1916 came to symbolise the national community and its struggle toward victory (see Bracco 2011) while the manipulation of his story and image under Fascism demonstrates that the symbolism of the disabled veteran continued to be exploited (see Salvante 2013).
It is difficult to find examples of disabled bodies being constructed in heroic terms before World War I, but recent historians have argued that the specific circumstances of the Great War provoked reformulations of masculinity in relation to disability in both Britain and the United States (see Bourke 1996; Carden-Coyne 2009). If masculinity, as George Mosse wrote in his pivotal study of the subject, had thus far been regarded as ‘of one piece from its very beginning…one harmonious whole, a perfect construct where every part is in its place’ (1996: 5), then in response to the numerous visibly fragmented male bodies it produced, the conflict forced a rethinking of masculinity in terms of a flawless bodily specimen. When David Carbonari’s film
Bella non piangere! (
Don’t Cry, Beautiful!, 1955) opens, Toti, the main protagonist, is represented as the quintessential male lead who embodies the attributes of ‘new manhood’: virility, courage and vigor.
2 When he loses his leg as a result of an act of selfless heroism, he regains his manhood and reconstructs his lost masculinity in the forge of battle only by making the ultimate sacrifice for his country. No longer whole in either body or soul, the story of the film suggests that like the fragmented territories of Italy, war will make him whole again and like the ruins of Rome, his corpse will testify to his former glory. Toti’s body is used as a surface onto which a moralising rhetoric of masculine sacrifice in the service of nationalism is inscribed. It is perhaps because of the timeless and universal appeal of this message that his legacy survived both Giolitti’s Liberal government and the subsequent Fascist regime in Italy, not only as the protagonist of Carbonari’s film, but as an enduring symbol of national sacrifice to whom the most recent monument was dedicated in 2008.
3Man and Myth
As the factual details of Enrico Toti’s life have been forgotten and/or manipulated in lieu of successive fictionalised or exaggerated accounts, the man has become more of a national myth. Lucio Fabi, the major authority on his life story, described the task of untangling fact from fiction as like navigating a historical labyrinth (1993: 10). What is known is that he was born in Rome in 1882 and enlisted in the navy at fourteen years of age, serving for eight years until 1905. A year after taking a job as a stoker with the railways, he lost his left leg in a work-related accident that dragged him beneath a locomotive. Instead of conforming to social expectations of the period with regard to disability, he set about using modern media to establish himself as a
personaggio, or public personality (see Fabi 1993: 20). He took on a number of impressive athletic challenges, including an international swimming competition across the Tiber River and a world bicycle tour during which he reportedly traversed 20,000 kilometres across Europe and Africa.
4Toti advocated Italy’s intervention in the war and shortly after its May 1915 entry into the conflict he set off on his bicycle with a homemade uniform for the front. Turned away on numerous occasions, he was back to Rome in August of that year where he presented repeated requests to various ministries for permission to return to the front. The would-be soldier was supposedly granted this permission thanks to the intervention of Prince Emanuele Filiberto Duca d’Aosta, to whom he had written in an undated letter, ‘Le guiro che ho del fegato e qualunque impresa la più difficile, se mi venisse ordinata, la eseguirei senza indugio’ (‘I swear to you that I have nerve and I would execute without hesitation even the most difficult challenge that might be assigned to me’) (quoted in Sillani 1924: 50). Toti’s eventual assignment was as an auxiliary volunteer, obliging him to stay well behind the front lines
without a weapon. He later appears to have been able to obtain a transfer to the Third Battalion of
bersaglieri cyclists under Major Paride Razzini, where he may have been tasked with monitoring lines of communication, retrieving weaponry and identifying the dead.
Yet there is confusion surrounding Toti that arises as a result of conflicting accounts and his subsequent politicisation as a national hero. His personal letters are full of frequent exaggeration and fantasy and it is according to them that he received permission to be in the war zone. Unfortunately there is no official record of his claims (see Fabi 1993: 40–4) and post facto military accounts placing him at the front of the attack on 6 August 1916 do not match those of contemporary biographers who report how he suffered from being disallowed to follow the ‘glorious battalion’ (Fabi 1993: 58). Despite the possibility that it was complete invention, the story of the heroic figure who threw his crutch at the Austrian enemy was celebrated by the monarchy and then held aloft and elaborated upon during the interwar period. Benito Mussolini advocated his place as the epitome of the Italian patriot; Fascist youth, he affirmed, would be trained to idolise him as the quintessential emblem of the self-sacrificing citizen (see Fabi 1993: 10–11). The regime even went so far as to expand on the scant existing details of events leading up to his death with newly elaborate and emotive official accounts twenty years after the fact (see Fabi 1993: 13).
The specific nature of Toti’s apparent determination and defiance captured Italy’s contempt for what would be termed their ‘vittoria mutilata’, or mutilated victory, against the Austrians. During the Risorgimento, or Italian unification, Italy undertook a series of Wars of Independence from Austria (1848, 1859, 1866); when it joined World War I in May 1915, it had been an independent nation state for only 45 years. Like David up against Goliath, it was a young, small, poor nation when it decided to confront the wealth and power of the Austro-Hungarian Empire yet again. This time Italians would be humiliated at the Battle of Caporetto in 1917 and bankrupted by what was said to be ‘the war to end all wars’. Italy entered the war reassured by British, French and Russian promises in the Treaty of London that it would acquire new territories, including Tyrol and Dalmatia. However, following the war, Italy’s allies failed to deliver on those promises in the Treaty of Versailles and much of the nation felt doubly victimised. For Italian nationalists, the government’s failure to confront the Entente powers (America, Britain, Russia and France) was unforgivable. Added to the economic consequences of World War I, these events fueled the nationalist sentiments that eventually led to the rise of Fascist radicals. Enrico Toti may have found himself at a physical disadvantage, but he refused to give up in the face of certain defeat and his final gesture proved he had more backbone than either the elite ruling classes of Prime Minister Giovanni Giolitti’s Liberal government or the Austrian enemy. His manly act of ‘sprezzatura’, or indifference, in the face of death, came to symbolise Italy’s attitude toward their ‘mutilated victory’ while the war hero’s injured body could be identified directly with that of the proud, if disgraced, nation.
Bella non piangere!
While film critic Morando Morandini panned David Carbonari’s post-war film in his
Dizionario del Film, describing it as a ‘patriotic tear-jerker, one of the most feeble B-movies of the 1950s’,
Bella non piangere! illustrates that the allure of Italy’s one-legged hero endured well beyond the historic trenches of World War I or the Fascist era and into the post-war period. If Neorealist film of the 1940s represented an overturning of the patriotic idols and ideals held up under the Fascist regime by Italian leftist intellectuals, then this film is emblematic of what has been termed the ‘crisis’ of Neorealism at the beginning of the 1950s.
5 The immediate post-war generation may have looked upon the patriotic self-sacrifices of the war with justifiable cynicism, but by 1955 Italy’s future was viewed with new optimism and the sacrifices of both world wars appeared to have been less in vain. Adopting a conservative spirit and a more popular Hollywood feel, the plot returns filmgoers to the heroic, patriotic themes of the interwar era and represents a new embrace of nationalist sentiment at the dawn of Italy’s Economic Miracle.
6Deviating from factual accounts, screenwriter Duilio Coletti and director Carbonari created filmic appeal in
Bella non piangere! by adding a love interest and introducing new elements to exaggerate the protagonist’s adventurous spirit and utterly self-sacrificing character. Thus in this film version of the story, Enrico Toti is a macho man’s man, an intrepid traveller and sportsman, an action hero who never stays home for long, but will go to any length in order to defend it. By embellishing the heroic aspects of his narrative, the filmmakers characterise him as a modern
superuomo, or superman, reviving key elements of Fascist dogma related to what Emilio Gentile has described as the myth of a ‘Greater Italy’ populated by ‘New Men’ (2003: 5–6). The film is emblematic of an ideology that subordinates individual and political liberties to the perceived needs of the nation, which is conceived as a cohesive body. By juxtaposing the hero’s physical drama with cityscapes of Rome and landscapes of war, the creators of the film utilise a strategy common to all nationalisms wherein the physical and moral health of the human body is metaphorically related with that of the country.
7 In this case, the parallel suggests that his personal moral triumph is a collective, national one and in this respect the film likely resonated with Italy’s post-war generation, for whom the man and his defiant act continued to represent, in a most singular fashion, the admirable principle of self-sacrificing military heroism (see Fabi 1993: 7).
8 They had, after all, grown up under the influence of Italy’s imagined ‘New Man’ who, with his attitude of
sprezzatura, was capable of spitting in the face of injury or death, and Toti was envisioned as having defied both.
Views of Italy’s capital in the first half of the film are a recurrent backdrop that activate the Eternal cityscape as a visual metaphor for broader conceptions of shared cultural heritage, national belonging and the Italian homeland. Key moments of intimacy unfold against carefully selected views of the city that frame Toti within romantically ruined visions of Rome and suggest a meaningful connection between the iconic fragments of the city’s glorious past and the hero’s own fragmented and fated body. Genuine World War I footage from Italy’s Istituto Luce (L’Unione Cinematografica Educativa) appears in the latter half of the film, conveying the destruction of the Italian countryside beyond the capital. Scenes of train travel then mediate between the safe inner spaces of Toti’s Roman home and the chaotic fringes of the front, implying that the struggles of the faraway conflict are ultimately in defence of Rome, at the heart of Italy, an emblem of the nation’s hard-won national unity in 1870.
9Bella non piangere! opens with a written message projected onto the rooftops of Rome, which reads: ‘Questo film e dedicato ad Enrico Toti, fulgido esempio di eroismo, ed a tutti coloro che in tutte le guerre, donando tutto ciò che potterano donare sacarificarono se stessi per la libertà della Patria’ (‘This film is dedicated to Enrico Toti, shining example of heroism, and to all those who in all the wars, giving all that they could give, sacrificed themselves for the liberty of the homeland’). The story begins when Enrico returns home to his mother and love interest, Nina, after a long stint abroad with the merchant marines. ‘Non ci so stare fermo’ (‘I don’t know how to stay still’), he tells them. Reunited and embracing on the banks of the Tiber River, Nina begs him to stay and find an administrative job so that they can at last be married. In the background of their intimate encounter looms the infamous Pons Aemilius, known to contemporary Romans as the ‘Ponte Rotto’, or broken bridge. The ancient, ruined bridge foreshadows both Enrico’s ensuing accident and the inevitable collapse of their love.
Although he is reluctant, Enrico agrees to interview for a government office job where two slow-moving old men hover over dusty bookshelves. Feeling trapped in this stuffy room, Toti tugs at his collar and tries to open the window onto the Roman fountain in the piazza below, but the men cry, ‘No, no, it’s been five years since we opened it’. The ageing ministers inside their suffocatingly small room, surrounded by their piles of paperwork, are contrasted with the youthful and energetic Enrico, whose evident need for fresh air and open space remind us that he is a man in his prime. The scenario reiterates the protagonist’s status as a ‘New Man’ who is youthful, active and strong. Here the film draws out Fascist definitions of new manhood, which exalted youthfulness, manly vigour and physical fitness.
10 Yet it also draws on attitudes that were common among the avant-gardes, which envisioned the ‘New Man’ as repudiating ivory-tower intellectualism to actively construct Italy’s future.
11 The scene identifies the awkward and ageing clerks with an Italy of the past and Enrico with its modern future. He flees the interview, refusing to be emasculated or enervated inside the restrictive office interior.
Having disappointed her, Enrico tries and fails to win back Nina’s affections by serenading her at her bedroom window, but she responds by dumping a bucket of water on him from above. The piggybacking of the two scenes implies that if Nina’s place is inside the home, his is not. When he later observes Nina in the marketplace of the ruined Portico of Octavia, being wooed by Fernando the barber, he decides to head off again, this time on a cycling adventure. After returning as the victor of a long haul race, Enrico is reunited with Nina and, as before on the picturesque banks of the Tiber, she asks him to take a day job in Rome. This time she suggests a more modern one attuned to his nature with the newly instituted railways. Here we see Enrico’s character making the first of a series of self-sacrificing choices as he curbs his active lifestyle for the woman he loves. Yet in its staging of events the film suggests that, in ceding to Nina’s pleas, the protagonist is relinquishing his previously unrestricted freedoms and weakening his masculine resolve. The suggestion seems to be that, in the tradition of Greek tragedy, his accident is predestined by such a disjunction of body and soul.
In Carbonari’s version of the story, Enrico Toti loses his leg on the job while saving a child vagrant who is found hiding in the rail cars and flees the authorities across the tracks. The moment of its loss is a heroic precursor and will become the catalyst for a new unparalleled level of masculine heroism linked to the ultimate physical sacrifice he makes for the national cause. Initially, however, the trauma of the injury results in an emotional breakdown. When he wakes up in the small hospital room and looks down at his amputated leg, Enrico declares, ‘So’ finito. Era meglio che morivo, se il treno mi ammazava subito’ (‘I’m finished. Better I had died, that the train had just killed me’). Rather than face Nina, he tells her that while his injury is insignificant he has decided that he doesn’t want to marry her. As he struggles to recover some mobility with the use of a crutch in the confines of home beside his mother, war is declared outside his window in the streets below. Although he attempts to enlist, he is turned away because of his disability. Determined to get to the front, Enrico then writes his historic letter to the Duke of Aosta and recruits the help of the young beggar whose life he saved at the railroad tracks. Having previously snuck in to visit his heroic saviour in the hospital, the boy is happy to devote himself to the older man’s service and procures him the fabric for a homemade uniform. He even manages to find him an illustriously feathered
bersagliere hat, the iconic symbol of the Italian light infantry corp. However, when the boy ignores his warnings and follows him onto the train to join him on his clandestine bid to make it to the front, their cover is blown and they are detained by high command. About to be sent ignominiously back to Rome, the Duke of Aosta intervenes on Enrico’s behalf. The Prince’s reputed real-life intervention is thus embellished and transformed into a personal encounter wherein the monarch says he received all of his letters and decrees that he will be assigned the dangerous task of delivering mail to troops via bicycle along the frontline. ‘Poche cose sono più importanti che le notizie dalla famiglia’ (‘Few things are as important as news from the family’), a soldier receiving his mail in the trenches tells him in following scene. As the frontline courier Enrico becomes the connective tissue between homeland and borderland.
After a bridging shot of weaponry and transports at the front, Enrico is seen returning home where he seeks Nina out to tell her, ‘La guerra mi ha insegnato che in fondo anche senza una gamba si può essere lo stesso un soldato, un uomo. Posso sposarti lo stesso. Ho paura’ (‘The war has taught me that, even without a leg, one can be a soldier, a man. I can marry you after all’). In defence of Italy, Enrico believes he has regained his manhood and become whole once more. But, as the audience is already aware, it is too late for them: Nina has married Fernando the barber, who is abusive, but with whom she now has a baby. When Enrico hears of the abuse, he confronts Fernando at the barbershop to defend her, demonstrating once again his superior kind of selfless manhood.
In a rather contrived scene as he heads back to the front Enrico looks through a classroom window where young children are being taught a geography lesson. The teacher explains the war as part of the fight to liberate Italian comrades and reunite the rest of Italy with the lost Italian territories of the north. Once again the window is used as an effective, even if simplistic, visual device, which mediates between interior and exterior space, and metaphorically suggests the contested national borders that delineate the safety of the Italian homeland from the foreign exterior. If ageing ministers, beloved Nina, and the young schoolchildren belong within its sheltered interior, Enrico Toti stands on guard at its periphery. Meanwhile a map of the Italian peninsula, nicknamed ‘Lo stivale’ for its boot-like shape, hangs on the classroom wall, linking Toti’s physique and his lost limb in particular with the anthropomorphic configuration of Italy’s geographic boundaries. Introducing the concept of the body politic through dialogue and imagery, the scene suggests a parallel between Italy’s lost territories and Toti’s lost limb. War, it is implied, offers the means by which to heal both the nation and the man. This connection between war and the regeneration of masculinity and national honour has a particular resonance in Italian experience, exemplified by the name of the Italian movement for unification itself (‘Risorgimento’ means ‘resurgence’). If for centuries Italians were slandered with stereotypes of effeminacy and cowardice, then, as Lucy Riall (2012) has demonstrated, leaders of the unification viewed war as a way to redeem the honour of Italian masculinity. In this historical sense the map summons up a long-term national discourse of lost honour and draws out an association between Toti’s damaged masculine body and the fragmented, and once again dishonored, Italian nation.
The love triangle between Enrico, Fernando and Nina unravels toward the end of the film as a result of the events of the war. Fernando also departs for the front, but only after he bids farewell to Nina and his son, Petruccio, a seemingly transformed and nobler man by virtue of his new role in the fighting. He is fatally injured almost immediately, however, and in the course of being transported to a war hospital, is reconciled with Enrico to whom he confesses ‘Non sono mai stato un buon marito…’ (‘I was never a good husband…’); but despite this fact he swears he always loved Nina and the child. Unlike their love for the same woman, which drew them apart, here the two men are seen to be brought together by a mutual love of country, united as brothers in arms. Enrico writes to tell Nina of Fernando’s condition and she boards a train for the front where she is able to hear his dying words: ‘Sono stato un mascalzone. Non meritavo una donna come te’ (‘I was a scoundrel. I didn’t deserve a woman like you. I am afraid’). Fernando’s dramatic character shift and the reconciliation between the two men are events that solidify the film’s advocacy of war as an act of masculine redemption. In their last moments together, Enrico sees Nina off at the train station with a group of singing, injured soldiers who are likewise heading home to Rome. Enrico stands on the platform wishing her ‘Addio’ multiple times as his voice trails off and his darkened figure moves into the distance as the camera pulls away with Nina’s train. Here the shot conveys the hallowed status of the hero who is backlit and thus framed by a halo of light. As Nina returns home to Petruccio, Enrico returns to the trenches of the frontlines where we already know he will die.
Genuine footage of bombs, gunfire and smoke from World War I is used to make it clear that the Italian situation is deteriorating at this point in the film. Under serious fire from the enemy, the Lieutenant tells high command that it is impossible under current conditions to send out a dispatch. Nevertheless Enrico volunteers and, when he is ordered not to go, defies these instructions to crawl over the walls, through barbed wire and gunfire, and into the adjacent trenches. The bombardment intensifies, forcing Enrico to take up one of the abandoned machine guns and begin firing into the night. The hero’s final moments take place at dawn when his bullets finally run out and he crawls out of the trench. Standing alone on the hilltop, backlit once again like a saint, he is shot once, tosses a stone, is shot again, and hurls his crutch before finally collapsing. If, in previous scenes, the crutch was a cipher for curtailed or truncated manhood, then in this final act it becomes a declaration of manhood reclaimed, made whole once again through bravery and voluntary sacrifice. In death all difference and disability disappear as he joins the numerous other war dead whose broken bodies are somehow the price to pay for Italian redemption. As the camera pans over the ground, which is scattered with the bodies of fallen soldiers, a new wave of
bersaglieri come charging over the hill and the trumpet declaring victory sounds. Italy and the Allies have defeated Austria, but not before Enrico Toti has made the ultimate sacrifice. There follows another series of historic film reels depicting cavalry, cycling battalions and convoys of army trucks returning home. With two final images the film cuts from Enrico’s smiling corpse to a shredded Italian flag waving in the wind, his postmortem smile presumably signifying the individual and collective moral victories that his death represents. This closing melodramatic juxtaposition confirms Toti’s identification with the ‘New Man’ that was supposed to build a ‘Greater’ Italy and reaffirms the metaphor of the body politic. Like the flag, the protagonist’s broken, but ennobled, body becomes an emblem of Italy, his individual story incorporated into a grand, national narrative of devotion, responsibility and sacrifice.
NOTES
FILMOGRAPHY
Carbonari, David (dir) (1955) Bella non piangere! (Don’t Cry, Beautiful!). 84 minutes. Excelsia Film. Italy.
Benadusi, Lorenzo (2012) The Enemy of the New Man: Homosexuality in Fascist Italy. Madison, WS: University of Wisconsin Press.
Bonetta, Gaetano (1990) Corpo e nazione: L’educazione, igienica e sessuale nell’Italia liberale. Milan: Franco Angeli.
Bourke, Joanna (1996) Dismembering the Male. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Bondanella, Peter (2003) ‘From Italian Neorealism to the Golden Age of Cinecittà’, in Elizabeth Ezra (ed.) European Cinema. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 119–38.
Bonetta, Gaetano (1990) Corpo e nazione: L’educazione ginnastica, igienica e sessuale nell’Italia liberale. Milan: Franco Angeli.
Bracco, Barbara (2011) ‘Il mutilato di guerra in Italia: polisemie di un luogo crudele’, Memoria e Ricerca, 38, 9–24.
Carden-Coyne, Ana (2009) Reconstructing the Body: Classicism, Modernism and the First World War. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Fabi, Lucio (1993) La Vera Storia di Enrico Toti. Gorizia: Edizioni della Laguna.
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____ (2003) The Struggle for Modernity: Nationalism, Futurism and Fascism. London: Praeger.
Griffiths, Jennifer S. (2015) ‘Enrico Toti: A New Man for Italy’s Mutilated Victory’, in Luca Somigli and Simona Storchi (eds) Annali d’Italianistica: The Great War and the Modernist Imagination in Italy, 33, 345–59.
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Koon, Tracey H. (1985) Believe, Obey, Fight: Political Socialization of Youth in Fascist Italy. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press.
Malvano, Laura (1994) ‘Il mito della giovinezza attraverso l’immagine: il fascismo italiano’, in G. Levi and J. C. Schmitt (eds) Storia dei giovani: L’età contemporanea. Rome: Laterza, 311–48.
Mosse, George (1996) The Image of Man: The Creation of Modern Masculinity. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
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____ (2012) ‘Men at War: Masculinity and Military Ideals in the Risorgimento’, in Silvana Patriarca and Lucy Riall (eds) The Risorgimento Revisited: Nationalism and Culture in Nineteenth-Century Italy. London: Palgrave Macmillan.
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Scarry, Elaine (1985) The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World. New York: Oxford University Press.
Sillani, Tommaso (ed.) (1924) Lettere di Enrico Toti. Firenze: Edizioni Bemporad.