Memories

From Andrea Guiati

I was deeply saddened to learn of the passing of my former professor, Umberto Mariani, on November 8, 2024, at the age of 97. He was a distinguished professor at Rutgers University, where I completed my PhD. I had the privilege of taking several classes with him, and he directed my dissertation, L'Invenzione Poetica: Ferrara e l'opera di Giorgio Bassani, which was later published by Metauro Edizioni.

I vividly remember submitting the first chapter of my dissertation to him for feedback. He meticulously edited and proofread it, using an array of colored highlighters and writing detailed notes in the margins in his distinctive, small handwriting—a script that I initially found challenging to read until I grew accustomed to it. He not only pointed out areas for improvement but also rewrote paragraphs to illustrate how the chapter could be strengthened. His dedication to helping me refine my work was remarkable, and the dissertation ultimately reflected his careful guidance.

Umberto Mariani supervised forty dissertations during his career, offering thoughtful and constructive feedback to each of his students. He was instrumental in shaping my decision to become a college professor. He taught me that teaching is more than a profession—it is a calling, an act of public service. Inspired by him, I embraced my role as a servant to the thousands of students I have taught at SUNY Buffalo State. My model and inspiration for this commitment were the humblest of servants: Jesus, Mother Teresa, and Umberto Mariani.

Together, Dr. Mariani and I co-edited NEMLA Italian Studies for several years, and I also served as editor of La Fusta under his guidance. We often presented at conferences, sharing our passion for Italian literature and culture. I will always cherish the memory of staying at his home in Hillsborough with his beloved wife of 61 years, Alice, when I defended my dissertation. His generosity was evident in so many ways, including his thoughtful gift of the Rutgers PhD robe, which I treasure to this day.

Dr. Mariani was deeply religious, and his faith shone through in all aspects of his life. He left an indelible mark on me and on countless others who were fortunate to be his students. I am certain that many of them share my deep admiration and gratitude for his wisdom, kindness, and dedication.

Rest in peace, Dr. Mariani. Your legacy lives on in the lives of those you touched. Your unparalleled dedication to your students, to Italian culture, and to literature will never be forgotten. Thank you for everything you did for me, for us, and for the field we hold so dear.

From Marisa Trubiano

Dedication to his students is what most characterized Prof. Mariani. There are many moments I remember, but the many times he helped prepare issues of the graduate student journal La Fusta and with graduate student conferences at Rutgers really stand out for me. He was never too busy and it was never too late to discuss and edit our work so that we could make our deadline. His home was always open to us, he and his kind wife were always welcoming, and his advice was always spot on. His memory lives on in all the educators and scholars he helped to train over his many years at Rutgers.

Thank you, Prof. Mariani.

From Giovanna Miceli Jeffries

My first graduate course with professor Mariani was il Teatro del Novecento. I remember the huge table in the basement of Seminary Place totally crowded with students, not a chair was empty.

He stressed to me and others the seriousness of researching and writing a paper on a topic and refrain paraphrasing; his ways of questioning and pointing out would make him seem rigorous, almost stern: “Ma perché lei dice questo?…..” leading to face-to-face discussions and a briefing on the paths of what we went over, and abundant questions, annotations, corrections with his minuscule, clear hand-writing on the margins of drafts.

I think he embarrassed his students with his punctuality in reading and returning drafts that let no excuse for slacking. Unlike for my Master thesis when I was still on campus, for the Ph.D. dissertation, we worked across the country via snail mail on typewritten drafts, at the dawn of personal computers, neither of us owned a computer. As a wedding present, professor Mariani had given me a copy of Svevo’s La coscienza di Zeno, which I put in my suitcase for my honeymoon, for not particular reasons, except that I had not yet read Svevo and was curious. I will call it, humorously and ironically, “il libro galeotto,” reminiscent of Francesca’s words to Dante. Little I expected its impact in my research and scholarly work. I won’t double on the words that have preceded and will follow mine in this testimonial portrait of Umberto Mariani: human being, maestro, scholar. He was one-of-a-kind, discrete, with a gentle warm smile.

From Rosa Zagari-Marinzoli

Choosing Dr. Mariani as my dissertation advisor was the best decision I ever made. He guided me and took personal interest in my research and topic. I was a lecturer at Princeton University and the mother of two very young sons when I started to work on my dissertation. I probably would not have completed my dissertation, if it were not for Dr. Mariani's persistence and encouragement to continue and to write during my summer months, or when on winter break from Princeton U. Thanks to his continued persistence, I was even able to submit and publish some of the chapters from my dissertation.

He took great care in reviewing and annotating the draft of each chapter that I submitted to him. I would normally drive from my Cherry Hill home and meet at Dr. Mariani's house. Our meetings to review the draft of each chapter lasted 2 or 3 hours. Often his kind wife would bring us tea or home-made treats.

I loved and respected Professor Mariani as a professor as well and I took every course that he offered. I took copious notes from his lectures and, from time to time, 40+ years later, and now retired, I still review some of those class notes or the draft of my dissertation. The red edits, inminiscule handwriting, on the margins of each page, talk to me and bring me back to the pastoral setting of his welcoming country home. I will cherish those memories forever.

From Stefano Campiglio

I must begin with a time before I knew Umberto, with the events that led up to knowing him, because, as I reflect back, the story has the magic of a fairy tale.

I remember that moment I first saw Dolcissimo, a trade paperback novel by Giuseppe Bonaviri, translated and with an introduction by Umberto, and published in 1990 by Italica Press: it was on top of a stack of newly arrived books inside a box on a skid in the backroom of a major bookstore where I worked in the 1990s. Each week, several skids of books would arrive, and booksellers would unpack boxes and sort for their sections. On this particular day, among stacks of books, the title caught my eye because of its cover, which portrayed a Norman Carver photograph from his book, Italian Hilltowns. I still muse on how everything began with a picture. I knew nothing of Bonaviri’s work and did not recognize Umberto’s name, although I had been a practicing poet for about 15 years by that time and had read quite a lot of translated Italian poetry. Of course, Dolcissimo was fiction, but it was by an Italian writer, and I was consumed by all things Italian, literary or otherwise, and grabbed the book, hoping that I would be rewarded by taking a chance on an author unbeknown to me. And it did, indeed, become a “booklover’s find.”

Now, fast-forward nearly two decades to Spring of 2013. I had an urge to supplement my literary work with translating a contemporary Italian poet, although I didn’t know which one I should choose. It was serendipitous at this time that I was also rereading Dolcissimo, and in the front of the book with a list of Bonaviri’s other titles, realized that he had published poetry, too, and the thought struck me that he was the poet I should translate, without a clue as to what this poetry might be, and on the strength of enjoying a single novel.

I began my research with the translator―Umberto. I discovered that he had been a professor of Italian Studies at Rutgers University and had edited a special Bonaviri issue of the journal, La Fusta, in 1981, published by the Graduate Italian Department at Rutgers, which included his translation of some Bonaviri poems. On a long shot, I telephoned the Department, explaining my interest in Bonaviri and Umberto, and asked if a copy of this back issue might still be available, expecting “sorry” for answer, with the issue being more than 30 years old. However, the secretary was pleased to inform me that not only was there an extra copy available but that, perhaps, I would also like to speak directly with Professor Mariani, who, she explained, had retired as professor emeritus but still kept office hours in the building. I was stunned that my call had led to the man himself!

When Umberto picked up the phone, I explained to him who I was and my proposed Bonaviri project, and he responded, without hesitation, that he would be glad to help me. I was immediately taken by his unassuming, generous, and professorial presence. From this innocent inquiry began a steady correspondence and friendship with Umberto, whom I came to affectionately call il maestro mio.

After my Bonaviri work concluded in Spring of 2018, I continued my calls to Umberto. I had also gotten to know his wife, Alisa, who would usually answer the phone. In fact, sometimes, she and I would talk for an extended time before she put on Umberto. Best of all, a few years ago, I had the wonderful opportunity of visiting them – on my way back to Massachusetts from a trip to Philadelphia – when we spent an afternoon together. I spoke to him for the last time only a few weeks before he died.

I will always associate my cherished memory of the Mariani’s with a love for languages and literature, and the joy that comes from sharing love.

From Francesca Mariani (daughter)

Born in 1927 in the town of Lissone, Italy, Dad was the youngest of many children in a devout Catholic family. His early life was shaped by the depth of tradition, the resilience of wartime survival, and the aspirations of a bright and inquisitive boy.

He grew up in the shadow of hardship, where WWII planes roared overhead, their ominous cargo a constant reminder of war. Yet even amidst the austerity of those times— when bread was mixed with marble dust and silkworms wove their fragile threads—Dad held onto a sense of nostalgia, an abiding love for the world around him. He found beauty in his family’s carpentry business, the tended garden in their front courtyard, and the unity of shared struggles.

As a boy, he dreamed of becoming a surgeon. He would study his hands, testing their steadiness, imagining a future in which they might heal others. But life redirected his path. The loss of his own father altered his course, and he turned to his second love—literature.

His journey into the world of letters began at the University of Pavia, where he earned his Ph.D. in 1955 with a dissertation on Pavese. Pavese’s deep engagement with American authors and themes ignited his own fascination with American literature, compelling him to continue his studies at the University of Rome. This passion ultimately carried him across the Atlantic as a Fulbright-Smith-Mundt scholar, marking the beginning of a lifelong exploration of transatlantic literary connections.

It was in New York that he met the love of his life, our Mom, Alice Gladstone—an inseparable partner whose shared intellect and devotion would define their bond for over six decades. Unfortunately she couldn’t be here with us to celebrate with him as she passed but 15 days after he did.

Over the years, Dad’s academic pursuits flourished. He joined the faculty at Rutgers University, where he devoted more than 40 years to teaching Italian literature, history, art, and film. His students adored him—not just for his scholarship, but for his generosity. He guided more than 40 master’s and doctoral students through their theses, offering them not only academic insight but also personal encouragement. His work extended beyond the classroom to the pages of books and journals, where he explored the depth and breadth of Italian and American literary traditions.

But there was more to Dad than his academic achievements. He was an artist and a craftsman—rooted in the traditions of his childhood. Even as he pursued his scholarly life in America, he never abandoned the art of woodworking, painting, the tending of fruit trees, or the careful raising of bees. Our home was a testament to his life’s enduring themes—a place where intellect and nature harmonized, where stories were told, and traditions were remembered.

Dad was also a man of faith. His devout Catholicism shaped his worldview, infusing his work with an enduring sense of purpose. Whether reflecting on the New Testament or publishing on the interplay of Creationism and evolution, he approached life’s important questions with both rigor and reverence.

Above all, Dad believed in the value of serving others. Whether you were a carpenter or a professor, a surgeon or a writer, he saw each vocation as an opportunity to uplift those around you. He lived by that principle, and in doing so, he taught us all what it means to lead a life of meaning.

He was a stubborn person and as he aged often refused help since he could envision the ability to do it all by himself. However, in his final years of his life, he realized his limitations and transitioned to giving profuse thanks—for his family, colleagues, church, and caregivers.

We will miss his steady hands, his poignant words of counsel, and his boundless energy to create new things. I want to thank him for showing us how to make things ourselves, how to serve, and how to live.

From AnnaLisa Mariani (daughter)

I will share some memories of him outside of the classroom or lecture hall.

My claim to fame is that I’m the only one in the family without a PhD. My path is a musical one, from starting violin lessons at age 5 to a degree in Music Education to being a music teacher. While Mom took on most of the chauffeur duty, getting me to lessons and orchestra practice, Dad was at every concert, waving at me from the audience. This continued throughout college and even occasionally in my professional life.

Another memory is of Dad correcting my math homework. My excuse for being bad at math is that, as a musician, I only need to be able to count to five. So Dad would go through my homework most nights, working the problems in Italian, then helping me to understand my “numerous” mistakes. Ever the educator, he also helped me translate my Latin choir pieces because I was in college during the dark ages before Google.

Dad was an artist, creating many paintings and drawings. I remember spending a bright summer afternoon, seated side by side, painting the view toward our bright red barn. Dad’s painting was lovely, full of detail and depth perception. Dad was very patient with my lack of visual artistic ability (this is why I’m a musician) and his final comment was something along the lines of “good use of green.” At least my barn was red.

Monday night was always his late school night and he would arrive home by about 7:30 just in time for dinner. Francesca and I would gleefully hide behind the front door to try to scare him. He would always act surprised to see us although perhaps he got used to it in later years as it became a treasured Monday night tradition.

The holidays were always a big deal at our house. Dad’s task, after wrestling the tree into the stand, was to prepare fresh fruit to hang on it using wire to hold them. Our stockings were filled with pens and other day to day items. I got a tire gauge once. Panetone was a favorite holiday treat, one that we still indulge in, and the New Year was always welcomed by the singing of Old Enzymes (Auld Lang Sine.)

Saturdays were work days on our farm. Francesca and I were taught about fruit trees, basic animal care, and house repairs from plumbing to changing an outlet to switching out storm windows for screens in the spring and back again in the fall. He taught me how to use power tools, which is a skill I use today and am very thankful for. I remember once getting a ratchet set for my birthday. He was always a practical gift giver.

He also taught us how to milk goats, which was nonstop entertainment. Other farmyard tasks included helping to shear the sheep, caring for the rabbits, and collecting the eggs from the chickens. However, he was the only one who could manage the geese and when they came to their demise, Mom and I secretly celebrated.

As I’m sure you can imagine, or perhaps you have seen first hand, having two parents dedicated to literature meant a house full of books. Dad’s solution for running out of room to display them was to build more bookshelves, carefully measured and constructed to fit the space. When I moved to Pennsylvania, we made three bookshelves that have moved from place to place with me. I am ashamed to say that one of them holds the dishes and bowls overflow from my kitchen cabinets as well as my crock pot and the bucket of cat food.

Dad taught us to think for ourselves and to believe in what we had been taught. He was ever supportive of the paths we chose in life and always quick to step in and help when things were difficult. Thanks for all you have taught us, Dad.

Dad's version

AnnaLisa's version!

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