I close a door. Twenty years. I lean against it. I walk away. Behind that door, besides the dust, nothing will change. I will change. I will always have the suspicion that something has changed from there. That my own way of being has changed from there.
If I imagine my book as written by another, I think that, in the end, I could have also had my back against that door. I think I could not have resolved myself without also going in the opposite direction. Every question in life, in the end, becomes an exhausting inquiry into oneself. It is a shadow; an imperceptible fact that gets pinned between the folds of the face. You don’t recognize it until something stops it, blocks it: until there’s no longer anything that indicates the possibility of a future.
That’s why I have never liked the dead. Especially those who were killed. Those caught off guard. That veil of dismay puts before everyone the interrupted question, the interrupted plea for help. That vanishes with the relaxation of the muscles and will not have an answer. Perhaps.
I do a strange job, if it can be called a job, and I always ask myself: what is the limit between what one feels and what will be? Between truth and justice? Between my natural need to be there and the inescapable question of who, looking at my face, will try to imagine my lost future just after that moment? Giuseppe Fusari
Saturday at 9.30 a.m. At the Nursery, the key word is hospitality: we welcome and cultivate people, ideas, words. Given the time, we begin to chat over breakfast. Coffee, tea, all the good things that help start the day well: biscotti with organic flours baked in a wood-fired oven, yogurt and local cheeses, fruit jams from the garden, and whatever the awakening and the season inspire (for example, chiffon).
At 12.30 p.m. light lunch, greetings and toasts. In between, chatter, questions, lovely ideas. To your heart's content.
