I liked. Now I know for sure. Now that I have no illusions and I do not believe in many things for which I'd give my life, now, yes, I liked. Because it made me feel alive. Which is the thing that comes close at what he calls "involuntary happiness." I refer to those days when there were people in a single glance of which satisfies me. Those in which they listened to songs and you cried for that same expression when there was though. When Libin was bleeding and there was no boundary between a finding by a reader of "words" and the attendance of the most dizzying literary places to find an answer, or simply a definition of the abyss that creeva to live. I do not like anymore. Better: I do not think there is someone who can give me similar feelings. You were giving me. From years of "Young Werter" to those of "La Repubblica" I think that now is spending too much time. That time attentive to everything we produce or are looking for.
It cost me too much, after all, a desecration of everything: there is nothing that can justify now: Everything is included, cataloged, dated. The literature is, in general, all things said or written are only the phenomena and, as such, can be studied and understood, but, then, they are, eo ipso, in relationship with each other, in respect to one with others, relatively speaking, rather, to each other.
love becomes something that produces a stoic smile, Ariosto, and the credibility of Santa Claus. We are doomed to try, in vain, the truth, the price, then the rupture of that psychological well-being.
Recipe Foscolo abandonment of illusions, perhaps it is effective anesthesia. Personally, I'm missing your image, that same image that I sing in everything I did, exalted to the point of considering his infatuation with a mawkish personal merit be shown, even to the other, with a gesture of pride pathetic.
The letters I wrote you with a commitment to poetry, because you could love my soul and my love for you, as the nature of "stepmother" will prevent any movement to me. If you could, I'd ask as a gift, one of those days. But you can not because your light is gone.
M.
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