Slang is a technical language, and as such it is on the outer limit of usage. There is an endless list of books on the subject; one of the first scholars of Italian slang, L. Nicastro, was from Rome. Roman dialect is in most cases a form of slang. It is inconceivable for a Roman speaker, especially if he is young, to express a complete thought (which he would call a “pezzo,” as in “listen to this pezzo”) without using “expressive emphases” and without making use of a “vivid” vocabulary.
What a Roman admires above all in a person are his skills as an orator, his linguistic inventiveness, or at least his vivid usage of slang expressions. “How about that?” says a boy, after having knocked off a particularly successful remark (a “sparata,” or “sbrasata”). For example, the film rendition of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar was a true Roman success, due mainly to Antonio’s speech; I have seen young people from the most diverse neighborhoods of the city, from Porta Cavalleggeri to Primavalle to Testaccio, who can recite long passages from memory. Ultimately, Marlon Brando’s speech is the speech of a dritto, a smartass. In it, rhetorical twists, reticence, and allusion predominate. It exemplifies the art of saying and not saying, of winking to the listener, with the aim of poking fun at certain people (in this case, the conspirators, who are noble of spirit, and thus fools) and mesmerizing others (the large crowd).
Slang is born in clearly demarcated groups, either of artisans or of thieves. But it spreads immediately via the conscious choice of speakers, and naturally through a series of variations, especially according to gender, but also according to age. If the language of men and women is different, so is that of the young and the old. One would imagine the latter to be more conservative, as is the case in the rest of the world, but in Rome this seems to be less true. Men are ragazzi their entire lives, with a touch of narcissism to keep the linguistic inventiveness alive—after all, it is a form of crooked exhibitionism.
Roman slang depends on this fundamental “narcissistic fixation” in the average speaker, and his consequent exhibitionism. Do we need proof of this? Recent southern additions simply underscore a traditional fact. And I don’t think that a racial explanation can be invoked. The infantilism that causes the craving for a manner of speech that is attractive, amusing, ironic, treacherous, insolent, blissful, and almost incomprehensible—due to its underworld, clandestine references—is a historic reality. It is the linguistic manifestation of a sub-culture, typical of an underclass that is frequently in contact with the dominating class: servile and disrespectful, hypocritical and unbelieving, spoiled and merciless. It is the psychological condition of a lower class that for centuries has remained “irresponsible.” Their only “vengeance” is the belief that they, not the powerful, are the depositories of a notion of life which is more…“virile,” because it is unscrupulous, vulgar, sly, and perhaps more obscene and devoid of moral niceties. This ruthless notion of life coincides with a morality which in its own way is epic. “Vita,” or life, means “malavita,” underworld, and something more besides. It is a philosophy of life, a praxis.
A ragazzo to whom I observed that it was not good manners to spit in a pizzeria, responded, shrugging his shoulders and looking at me, fair-haired as a baby Cain: “I live my life, I don’t give a shit about anybody else’s.” [Io fo’ la vita mia: dell’altri nun me ne frega niente.] Another time, when I was walking down a street in the Garbatella neighborhood, I saw a drunk old man spitting out guttural, blind phonemes to his friend as he peed on the sidewalk. I commented to a young man who was with me, that after so many years in Rome, I still couldn’t get used to such revolting spectacles. He answered, “That’s life.” [È de vita.”]
I don’t know if there are any experts who are currently studying the lexicon of Roman slang. I, who am not an expert, rely on my tape recorder, picking up the expressions that I hear in the streets, emerging from the dark and returning to it. I heard a young Genovese hoodlum say “mecca,” meaning a woman, and have read “zaraffa” (pickpocket) and other underworld terms in Danilo Dolci’s88 reports from Palermo. I know nothing more about the etymology or origins of this lexicon. Here is a small sample of the slang of a small band of thieves, whose home base is a little piazza in the Trastevere neighborhood (which I will not name), told to me by a ragazzo (nicknamed Picchiola, Nicchiola, Negretto, Sciaboletta, Cappellone, Ciambellone, Lupetto, Zelletta, Sbaficchio, Luccicotto, Scintillone, Fumetto, Rabadicchio or some such). I will not even give his initials, as any self-respecting folklorist would do:
Pitonà = sleep
Farlocchi = pilgrims, tourists
Un tinello de latte zozzo89 = a cappuccino
Ragagnòttolo = ragazzo, young man
Rombonze90 = motorcycle
Svortà = to eat
Svortata = a big meal
Patatanza91 = potato
Monetanza92 = money
Biranza93 = beer
Lattanze94 = milk
Mercettòla95 = stolen goods
Viemme sotto96 = give me the goods or the money
Cagà97 = to confess, sing to the authorities
Dàmese, dàtte98 = let’s get out of here, get out of here.
This lexicon is deformed by its sense of pleasure and inventiveness; it is almost a form of evasion from the margins to the center, the inverse of bourgeois hermeneutics. But delinquency colored with bourgeois snobbery is the most dangerous thing of all. It amounts to exaltation added to hunger and anarchy. We see the roots of “pitonà”99 (from “pitone,” bringing back schoolroom memories), or of “rombonze” (from the upper class word, “rombo,” or noise). We see the refined, somewhat forced parody of “latte zozzo,” the extravagance of the endings-anze and -onze. And in this way, the rejected amuse themselves, the desperate find hope.
(1957)
Folder from the archive entitled, Scartafaccio100 1954–55.
88 Danilo Dolci was a determined and much-loved anti-Mafia activist from Sicily.
89 Literally, cup of dirty water.
90 From “rombo,” or rumble.
91 From “patata,” or potato.
92 From “moneta,” or coins.
93 From “birra,” or beer.
94 From “latte,” or milk.
95 From “merce,” or goods.
96 Literally, “come down.”
97 From “cagare,” or shit.
98 Literally, “to give.”
99 From “pitone,” or python: to sleep like a python after it has devoured its prey.
100 Notebook.