The Story of the Lost Child (The Neapolitan Novels, #4)

by Elena Ferrante

In what disorder we lived, how many fragments of ourselves were scattered, as if to live were to explode into splinters.

We were always moving, in those years. We wanted to be present, observe, study, understand, argue, bear witness, and most of all love each other.

Well, my dear, we are here; if you’re worried about your wife because she does crazy things, now I’m doing crazy things, let’s see how you manage it.

Only at that point did he say, in his refined way, that it was a good rule not to expect the ideal but to enjoy what is possible.

What a waste it would be, I said to myself, to ruin our story by leaving too much space for ill feelings: ill feelings are inevitable, but the essential thing is to keep them in check.