‘Is life to be lived or to be written?’ asked Luigi Pirandello, then to reply, ‘I have never lived, if not by writing…’.
I have asked myself the same, many times, in these years, and I have never known, I cannot answer other than say that I was born with an endowment that is at certain times as inviting as the clearest star in the sky, at others oppressive as the blackest night.
But it is the imprint of a fate, my own, for which I write as a child repeating a song of an evening, in a hushed voice and with clenched fists, to ward off the approach of darkness.
So I take in my hands my pen or mouse and I write what I would not be able to tell to anyone…
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