Mourir de nostalgie pour quelque chose que tu ne vivras jamais.

La sconcertante scoperta di quanto sia silenzioso, il destino, quando, d’un tratto, esplode.

No se puede apagar el mar, cuando arde en la noche.

Jasper Gwyn taught me that we aren’t characters, we’re stories,” said Rebecca. “We stop at the idea of being a character engaged in who knows what adventure, even a very simple one, but what we have to understand is that we are the whole story, not just that character. We are the wood where he walks, the bad guy who cheats him, the mess around him, all the people who pass, the color of things, the sounds.

Growing up, loving, having children, growing old – and all this while we are elsewhere, in the long time of an answer that doesn’t arrive, or of a gesture that doesn’t end. How many paths, and at what a different pace we retrace them, in what seems a single journey.

In this transparency, the footprints of the little birds spoke with a muffled voice. What they spoke of was entirely without significance, or else something capable of lifting a life off its hinges: there was no way of knowing.

It was surprising to consider that in fact there were signs, that is the embers of a voice destroyed by fire.

Because despair was an excess that did not belong to him, he submitted to what was left of his life, and began again to look after it, with the unyielding tenacity of a gardener at work the morning after the storm.

He was, besides, one of those men who like to witness their own life, considering any ambition to live it inappropriate.

He wasn’t much cut out for serious conversations. And a goodbye is a serious conversation.