I found the book last year.
It has a certain effect re-read the pages written in times of master of the pause when I tried to keep my eyes open and talked with my colleagues as we translated that single small word but it changed the meaning of a sentence, or a whole world attached to a sentence.
It seems impossible that he has already spent a full year from the argument, made the summer of text searches and advice from three days in Switzerland, when I knew that I was cultivating a nice illusion.
now translate, a bit ', I have just paid a couple of jobs just a whim just to enjoy some more vacation, even if on vacation and when I do not know if I'll go.
My illusion is very well hidden, Today I discussed in a frank way too, the works to prevent me from thinking about anything else for the rest of the day. I have always translated, I've always written what I thought about hiding pages in other books so it was impossible for me to find, if not by accident. I've always loved words, especially words of others. I have always been enough to know that I cultivated my passion with dedication and patience, without ever stopping to do so, without asking why or for whom.
This thing has not changed, although the patient sometimes falters. But I feel a little broken inside of me: the moment when I realized that I could not bear other wastes and other tumbles also coincided with the moment I stopped thinking in life that things could change drastically tomorrow and start over, how about a nice white sheet.
A new novel, a new summer to start, go up steps abandoned a decade ago, but still be in a new phase. Having a new home to return to. That is the way I turn the page.
I am not convinced that enough for me.
Meanwhile, I read Elizabeth Strout and I sleep less and less.
