Nobody These Days Holds The

Your House, Being The Place In Which You Read, Can Tell Us The Position Books Occupy In Your Life, If They Are A Defense You Set Up To Keep The Outside World At A Distance, If They Area Dream Into Which You Sink As If Into A Drug, Or Bridges You Cast Toward The Outside, Toward The World That Interests You So Much That You Want To Multiply And Extend Its Dimensions Through Books.

Myth Is The Hidden Part Of Every Story, The Buried Part, The Region That Is Still Unexplored Because There Are As Yet No Words To Enable Us To Get There. Myth Is Nourished By Silence As Well As By Words.

Success Consists In Felicity Of Verbal Expression, Which Every So Often May Result From A Quick Flash Of Inspiration But As A Rule Involves A Patient Search... For The Sentence In Which Every Word Is Unalterable.

It Was The Hour In Which Objects Lose The Consistency Of Shadow That Accompanies Them During The Night And Gradually Reacquire Colors, But Seem To Cross Meanwhile An Uncertain Limbo, Faintly Touched, Just Breathed On By Light; The Hour In Which One Is Least Certain Of The World's Existence.

I Do Not Have Any Political Commitments Anymore. I'm Politically A Total Agnostic; I'm One Of The Few Writers In Italy Who Refuses To Be Identified With A Specific Political Party.