In Other Words

Why do I write? To investigate the mystery of existence. To tolerate myself. To get closer to everything that is outside of me

I believe that what can change our life is always outside of us.

A conversation involves a sort of collaboration and, often, an act of forgiveness.

Those who don’t belong to any specific place can’t, in fact, return anywhere.

I didn’t write, if I didn’t work with words, I wouldn’t feel that I’m present on the earth.

What I hear, in the shops, in the restaurants, arouses an instantaneous, intense, paradoxical reaction. It’s as if Italian were already inside me and, at the same time, completely external. It doesn’t seem like a foreign language, although I know it is.

As if I had known it for years, even though there is still everything to discover. I would be unsatisfied, incomplete, if I didn’t learn it.

L’imperfezione dà lo spunto all’invenzione, all’immaginazione, alla creatività. Stimola. Più mi sento imperfetta, più mi sento viva.

What I hear, in the shops, in the restaurants, arouses an instantaneous, intense, paradoxical reaction. It’s as if Italian were already inside me and, at the same time, completely external. It doesn’t seem like a foreign language, although I know it is

what moves me, what confuses me, what pains me—everything that makes me react, in short—I have to put it into words. Writing is my only way of absorbing and organizing life. Otherwise it would terrify me, it would upset me too much.