Miriam

“If we want know the meaning of existence, we must open a book: over there, in the darkest chapter, there’s a sentence written especially for us.”
― Pietro Citati

“There are so many different kinds of stupidity, and cleverness is one of the worst.”
― Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain

“Papà," domandò ancora Giannina, "perché le tombe antiche fanno meno malinconia di quelle più nuove?".
Una brigata più numerosa delle altre, che occupava buona parte della carrozzabile, e cantava in coro senza darsi pensiero di cedere il passo, aveva costretto l'automobile quasi a fermarsi. L'interpellato ingranò la seconda.
"Si capisce," rispose. "I morti da poco sono più vicini a noi, e appunto per questo gli vogliamo più bene. Gli etruschi, vedi, è tanto tempo che sono morti" - e di nuovo stava raccontando una favola -, "che é come se non siano mai vissuti, come se siano sempre stati morti.”
― Giorgio Bassani, Garden of the Finzi Continis

“The eye in this city acquires an autonomy similar to that of a tear. The only difference is that it doesn't sever itself from the body but subordinates it totally. After a while - on the third or fourth day here- the body starts to regard itself as merely the eye's carrier, as a kind of submarine to its now dilating, now squinting periscope. Of course, for all its targets, its explosions are invariably self-inflicted: it's own heart, or else your mind, that sinks; the eye pops up to the surface. This, of course, owes to local topography, to the streets - narrow, meandering like eels - that finally bring you to a flounder of a campo with a cathedral in the middle of it, barnacled with saints and flaunting its Medusa-like cupolas. No matter what you set out for as you leave the house here, you are bound to get lost in these long, coiling lanes and passageways that beguile you to see them through to follow them to their elusive end, which usually hits water, so that you can't even call it a cul-de-sac. On the map this city looks like two grilled fish sharing a plate, or perhaps like two nearly overlapping lobster claws ( Pasternak compared it to a swollen croissant); but it has no north, south, east, or west; the only direction it has is sideways. It surrounds you like frozen seaweed, and the more you dart and dash about trying to get your bearings, the more you get lost. The yellow arrow signs at intersections are not much help either, for they, too, curve. In fact, they don't so much help you as kelp you. And in the fluently flapping hand of the native whom you stop to ask for directions, the eye, oblivious to his sputtering, A destra, a sinistra, dritto, dritto, readily discerns a fish.”
― Joseph Brodsky, Watermark