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190 pages, Kindle Edition
First published October 11, 2016




'I realised that the more one aged, the more it mattered to stay alive.'
'What really prevented me from waving my arms and calling out for help was shame. I'd wanted to be more than the place I'd grown up in, I'd sought out the world's approval. And now that I was at the end of my life and taking stock of it, I couldn't bear looking like an hysterical little man who screamed for help from the balcony of the old house in which he'd been a young boy, the one he'd fled from, full of ambition. I was ashamed of being locked outside, I was ashamed that I hadn't known how to avoid it, I was ashamed to find myself lacking the controlled haughtiness that had always prevented me from asking anyone for help, I was ashamed of being an old man imprisoned by a child.'
'All at once I saw an old man without qualities, of feeble strength, hesitant step, clouded sight, sudden sweats and chills, increasing listlessness interrupted only by weak methods of will, forced enthusiasm, sincere melancholy. And that image seemed to be my true image, true not only now, in Naples in the house of my adolescence, but—the wave of depression was spreading—true also in Milan for some time, ten years, fifteen, though perhaps less precise than in that moment. Until then I'd managed to lie to myself about being at the peak of my productivity.'
