In Turin now everything was ready: I had found an apartment near the Isabella bridge and had worked hard to get most of my things and Imma's moved. We departed. The train, I remember, had just left Naples, my daughter was sitting across from me, and for the first time she seemed sad about what she was leaving behind. I was very tired from the traveling back and forth of the past months, from the thousands of things I had had to arrange, from what I had done, from what I had forgotten to do. I collapsed against the seat back, I looked out the window at the outskirts of the city and Vesuvius as they grew distant. Just at that moment the certainty sprang to mind that Lila, writing about Naples, would write about Tina, and the text -- precisely because it was nourished by the effort of expressing an inexpressible grief -- would be extraordinary.

…

…

…

 

>> 网页版功能未完善，完整内容，请扫码微信小程序。