Last Summer in the City

Readers are a dying species,” I said. “Like whales, partridges, wild animals in general. Borges calls them black swans, and maintains that good readers are now scarcer than good writers. He says reading is an activity subsequent to writing, more resigned, more civil, more intellectual. No,” I went on, “that’s not where the danger lies. Books make different impressions according to the state of mind you read them in. A book that struck you as banal on a first reading may dazzle you on a second simply because in the meantime you suffered some kind of heartbreak, or you took a journey, or you fell in love. In other words, something happened to you.

There was great sadness in the speed at which the days were getting shorter. As if they were trying to redeem something that was irredeemable. With a sense of heartache, I thought about September, when the ferocity of summer would abate.

Rome by her very nature has a particular intoxication that wipes out memory. She's not so much a city as a wild beast hidden in some secret part of you. There can be no half measures with her, either she's the love of your life or you have to leave her, because that's what the tender beast demands, to be loved. …If she's loved she'll give herself to you whichever way you want her, all you need to do is go with the flow and you'll be within reach of the happiness you deserve. You will have summer evenings glittering with lights, vibrant spring mornings, cafe tablecloths ruffled by the wind like girls’ skirts, keen winters, and endless autumns…Every now and again, someone did get the hell out.

But it's always like that, we are what we are not because of the people we've met but because of those we've left.

Her şeyin denize uzandığını düşünürüm. Her şeyi, doğmayı asla başaramamış ve sonsuza dek ölmüş her şeyi bağrına basan denizi. Gökyüzünün açılacağı ve bütün bunların ilk kez ya da bir kez daha meşruluklarını yeniden kazanacakları o günü düşünürüm.

Rome produces a special intoxication that burns away memories. It's not just a city, it's a secret part of you, a hidden beast. With her, halftones are impossible, either you adore her or you get out. This is the only toll you will have to pay, no matter where you come from: from the green steep paths of the south, or from the swinging streets of the north, or from the abysses of your own soul.

So I told her I looked for bread crumbs or pieces of crust between the pages, because a book you read while nibbling your food was sure to be good, or else I looked for grease stains, fingerprints, and not too many pages with folded-down corners.

Why do people always live as if life can be repeated?

From the smile she gave me, anybody would have thought she’d spent the whole evening waiting for me. It was a smile that isolated the person that was addressed to, raising him to heights he would never have suspected he could conquer. A smile like a blow to the head, in which only one thing remains unequivocal. That she didn’t give a damn about you.