“Being an artist means,
not reckoning and counting, but ripening
like the tree
which does not force its sap
and stands confident
in the storms of spring, without the fear
that after them may come no summer.”
— Rainer Maria Rilke
Willy
Friday, half past eight, Plaza de la Catedral. It is drizzling. The square is deserted; now and then, the footsteps of a passer-by echo in the night, then disappear like a mirage. Little by little, some shadows glide across the cobblestones, and beneath the remains of the Roman wall (…)
The Cottolengo
Patients, sisters and volunteers live together day by day, then and I believe that the word that best describes this historic institution is joie de vivre. Even though the work is hard (…)
A year later
Right now, beautiful. At peace. An hour ago I was getting off the subway and, sweating, I was meditating on the word "overwhelmed." I find it hard not to let myself go lately. Tonight, I lied to everyone. (…)
The blue balloon (the story)
It’s hard to be small because people get mean. ‘You see, son’, said a father to his boy the other day, as the three of us were waiting for the lift. ‘Work hard at school, otherwise you'll end up like her.’ Oscar Wilde said (…)
‘Historias del gas’
This morning, as I started on the rooftops, I didn't have anything to write with, and it was really itching me. So I started ringing doorbells, and in barely an hour, I had already collected a nice haul (…)
“It does come. But it comes
only to the patient,
who are there as though eternity lay before them,
so unconcernedly still and wide.
I learn it daily, learn it with pain
to which I am grateful:
patience is everything!”
