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Authors: Carlo Sgorlon
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asking; it wouldn’t work and once again my curiosity would remain unsatisfied.
I finally became aware of their coarseness, their greed, and the irreparable hypocrisy that engulfed them from head to foot. I noticed the filth and stench of their caravans and their ragged clothes and fled in disgust. But later it often happened that my attitude would change once more. From my house I would hear their singing, the whinnying of horses, the girls’ laughter, or I would see the flames of their camp fires when night was coming on and suddenly the force that had always drawn me toward them would come to life again and I would go back down to the stream where they were camped. I envied them because in a few days they would hitch up their horses again, put out their fires, and start off who-knows-where. Now and then for an instant I would again fall prey to the old fear-desire that they would kidnap me.
Besides I was forever subject to secret attractions in things: a voice would be enough, a sound, a flight of birds, the scudding of clouds across the sky, a train whistle. For me everything had a double face, the first banally visible, the second enigmatic and discoverable only in fortunate circumstances. At times even what stood behind the face of death appeared charged with attractions.
By complicated negotiation, of which I saw only the final results, Maddalena managed to inform herself about scholastic programs and bring home to me old schoolbooks belonging to students who by now probably even had gray hair and children of their own. She would put them down in front of me with her customary self-satisfaction, but, glancing through their pages, which were often filled with odd-looking marks, she would give me a worried look as though to assess my resourcefulness and find out whether I would continue to study by myself.
It was a problem only to her. I dived into the books and in a short time read and reread all the ones about history, literature, geography, science and astronomy. On the other hand, those about mathematics, chemistry or geometry hadn’t the slightest attraction and I neglected them until a few days before the exams. In this way, reading and studying at my own whim, and by myself, I was able to maintain the totally arbitrary image of existence that I had created for myself, the image, that is, of an immense vacation in which one could always do whatever came to mind while awaiting some event that would open wide the doors of the future.
I particularly liked the history books. The deeds of Caesar, Alexander the Great, Hannibal and Genghis Khan were adventures something like Ishmael’s. I didn’t think for a moment that they had really happened somewhere in the world in remote times, even as my life was unfolding now. For me historical figures were either sympathetic or unsympathetic heroes and I took sides for or against them as if what they did was occurring in the present moment and might still have an uncertain outcome. I felt acute suspense as I read about the succession of events and experienced a twinge of anguish as I came upon epilogues that I would have wished otherwise.
I was torn by painful longings when I learned that Alexander had died at only thirty-three, or that Caesar had been stabbed by his adopted son the day of the Ides of March. And his wife had even had a bad dream and, possessed of a vague foreboding that something tragic would happen, begged him not to go that day to the Senate. But why, why did Caesar go just the same?
I was assaulted by restless anxiety as if I might still stop him at the door, running to him across abysses of space and time. I saw him among the white columns in the atrium of his house, uncertain about what to do as he studied Calpurnia’s face, trying to understand whether there was any substance to her obscure premonition. Yes, there had been many signs of his destiny but he hadn’t known how to interpret them. To me they all seemed clear, now that the event had
I finally became aware of their coarseness, their greed, and the irreparable hypocrisy that engulfed them from head to foot. I noticed the filth and stench of their caravans and their ragged clothes and fled in disgust. But later it often happened that my attitude would change once more. From my house I would hear their singing, the whinnying of horses, the girls’ laughter, or I would see the flames of their camp fires when night was coming on and suddenly the force that had always drawn me toward them would come to life again and I would go back down to the stream where they were camped. I envied them because in a few days they would hitch up their horses again, put out their fires, and start off who-knows-where. Now and then for an instant I would again fall prey to the old fear-desire that they would kidnap me.
Besides I was forever subject to secret attractions in things: a voice would be enough, a sound, a flight of birds, the scudding of clouds across the sky, a train whistle. For me everything had a double face, the first banally visible, the second enigmatic and discoverable only in fortunate circumstances. At times even what stood behind the face of death appeared charged with attractions.
By complicated negotiation, of which I saw only the final results, Maddalena managed to inform herself about scholastic programs and bring home to me old schoolbooks belonging to students who by now probably even had gray hair and children of their own. She would put them down in front of me with her customary self-satisfaction, but, glancing through their pages, which were often filled with odd-looking marks, she would give me a worried look as though to assess my resourcefulness and find out whether I would continue to study by myself.
It was a problem only to her. I dived into the books and in a short time read and reread all the ones about history, literature, geography, science and astronomy. On the other hand, those about mathematics, chemistry or geometry hadn’t the slightest attraction and I neglected them until a few days before the exams. In this way, reading and studying at my own whim, and by myself, I was able to maintain the totally arbitrary image of existence that I had created for myself, the image, that is, of an immense vacation in which one could always do whatever came to mind while awaiting some event that would open wide the doors of the future.
I particularly liked the history books. The deeds of Caesar, Alexander the Great, Hannibal and Genghis Khan were adventures something like Ishmael’s. I didn’t think for a moment that they had really happened somewhere in the world in remote times, even as my life was unfolding now. For me historical figures were either sympathetic or unsympathetic heroes and I took sides for or against them as if what they did was occurring in the present moment and might still have an uncertain outcome. I felt acute suspense as I read about the succession of events and experienced a twinge of anguish as I came upon epilogues that I would have wished otherwise.
I was torn by painful longings when I learned that Alexander had died at only thirty-three, or that Caesar had been stabbed by his adopted son the day of the Ides of March. And his wife had even had a bad dream and, possessed of a vague foreboding that something tragic would happen, begged him not to go that day to the Senate. But why, why did Caesar go just the same?
I was assaulted by restless anxiety as if I might still stop him at the door, running to him across abysses of space and time. I saw him among the white columns in the atrium of his house, uncertain about what to do as he studied Calpurnia’s face, trying to understand whether there was any substance to her obscure premonition. Yes, there had been many signs of his destiny but he hadn’t known how to interpret them. To me they all seemed clear, now that the event had
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