way to feel lighter and happier. Then I started to take off some words, some phrases, because it seemed to me that they were more effective so separate. One day Gianfranco found one of my sheets and asked me when I was writing poems. But I don't write poetry, I replied. 'Of course? Here they are.' he said waving the paper under my nose. You stain poems, can't you see they're just phrases that don't rhyme? And he: 'The rhyme doesn't matter. This is modern poetry.' But then I was not convinced but I continued to write because it is not I who seek the thoughts but they who seek, indeed to fall upon me. And when they arrive, tac*!, I have to write them immediately, and then feel light and happy. But if for some reason I can't write them right away, they are lost, lost forever, even if they were part of me just before."
"Tac! equal to inspiration. Inspiration equal to poetess. Congratulations, Daughter." He took the full glass of champagne, took a sip." I've written poetry too. I'll have to read them to you someday. "Another sip of champagne: "Keep writing, Daughter."
"I'd prefer prose. Between us, I'm just writing short stories."
"Start with the most difficult, Daughter. In a good story you have to say everything in a few pages and at the same time you have to leave the reader the possibility to imagine much more than what has been said."
"I have little hope of becoming a writer. When my characters come out of nowhere and come to me and talk to me, I talk, I suffer, I live with them and I can't be interrupted. Now, everyone interrupts me because I'm not a 'real writer.' If everybody interrupts me? It's a bit like the story of the chicken and the egg..." I sighed sadly. "A few weeks ago, when I went to San Michele for a few days, I decided to start over. At home...
* I've seen it translated to like that though I think that the word is just as likely an onomatopoeic sound for a sudden clicking of a thing into place.
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