The straw bag still hanging from one of the doors in her bedroom, the cuckoo clock in the sitting room, the wicker rocking chair, her colored combs set down close to the mirror in the bathroom, the Sardinian carpets, the flowers that Angela always places on the kitchen table, the reeds swaying in the wind, all these things speak to us about her.
Joyce’s house in Fermo, in the Marches, is a house that breathes life, a life that can often be very dramatic, but one that is also steeped in poetry. The period of her exile, with Emilio Lussu, in Paris, the struggle of Sardinian women, the translation of poets who wrote “useful poetry,” of the kind that strikes you directly, without needing too many words, the knowledge of other realities and of sentiment.
Joyce translated many poets, among which the Turkish writer Nazim Hikmet, and Agostinho Neto, who would later become president of Angola.
But Joyce’s journey is not just made up of words: it above all consists of the stages of her active participation in a common struggle, without distinctions, for a more peaceful and fairer humanity.