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Non finisce più! 😩

When you are in the middle of a story it isn’t a story at all, but only a confusion;a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood;like a house in a whirlwind,or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It’s only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all.When you are telling it, to yourself or to someone else.

It’s dark as a stone in this room, and hot as a roasting heart; if you stare into the darkness with your eyes open you are sure to see something after a time. I hope it will not be flowers. But this is the time they like to grow, the red flowers, the shining red peonies which are like satin, which are like splashes of paint.

Because he was so thoughtful as to bring me this radish, I set to work willingly to tell my story, and to make it as interesting as I can, and rich in incident, as a sort of return gift to him; for I have always believed that one good turn deserves another.
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Quindi non mi devo fidare? 🧐

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Io che mi sparo teorie pitagoriche alle 11 e 46 di domenica sera e godo pure. Grazie, Daverio. ❤️

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