The Days of Abandonment

by Elena Ferrante

And then I loved the writers who made you look through every line, to gaze downward and feel the vertigo of the depths, the blackness of inferno.

He was one of those timid men who are insecure in their relations with others. If they lose their composure they lose it uncontrollably; if they are nice they are nice to the point of becoming sticky, like honey.

I said it loudly but voices die quickly, they seem alive in the bottom of the throat and yet, if articulated, they are already spent sounds.