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My mother instead moved angrily through the house, and, hearing her unmistakable footsteps, I thought of how I had been afraid of becoming like her. But, luckily, I had outdistanced her, and she felt it, she resented me for it.
“Don’t read books that you can’t understand, it’s bad for you.”
The thing had begun before the vacation on Ischia.
the training, perhaps, to feel that the questions of the world were deeply connected to me;
Is it possible that even happy moments of pleasure never stand up to a rigorous examination?
Lila laughed, she provoked him, saying, “You’re only tough with people who can’t crack your head open, you bastard.”
she had imagined for me a road that my mother wasn’t able to imagine and had compelled me to take it.
Lila’s childish pages were the secret heart of my book.
What advantage could I have gained from becoming different?
People died of carelessness, of corruption, of abuse, and yet, in every round of voting, gave their enthusiastic approval to the politicians who made their life unbearable.
In Pisa, in Milan, I felt good, at times even happy; upon every return to my own city I feared that some unexpected event would keep me from escaping, that the things I had gained would be taken away from me.
