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Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1979
He would look unseeing out over Malafrena, with a heaviness in him. It was as if a spell was laid upon him here, which he could not break, though he might escape from it; a charm that grew strongest in certain hours, certain conversations.
That injustice could be institutionalised under the name of law, that inhumanity could embody and perpetuate itself in the form of armed men and locked doors, this he knew but did not believe, had not believed, until now.
He glanced at his friend and said, with his hands in his pockets, smiling irrepressibly, 'Do you believe in God, Francesco?' -- 'Of course. Don't you?' -- No. Thank God!'
For five years he had been sick for home, and now, forced to it as a fugitive, he must come to it knowing that he had no home.
“I should like to be your friend.”
“You are,” he said almost inaudibly; but his heart said, your are my house, my home; the journey and the journey's end; my care, and sleep after care.
“How can I turn my back on all the rest?”
“The rest?”
“The darkness,” Piera said, looking up from her work. “Air. Space. The wind, the night. I don’t know how to say it, Laura! The things you can’t trust, the things that are too big for you, that don’t care about you. I am just learning what that is and what I am, and I can’t leave it, give it up, not yet!”