But what I believe really interests us, and the teenagers who are drawn to his work, is not who Lucretius was: it is life itself. How far can we go in understanding our reason? Can it save us from the monsters that dwell in us? Or should we renounce lucidity in order to find consolation? Can we be enchanted by his understanding of reality and at the same time transported by his poetry? Is it possible to seek the light of thought without becoming myopic with regard to the infinite complexity of what is happening in front of us? Is nature a mother, or a wicked stepmother? Does the lucidity of
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