It seems, in the end, after careful analysis, that all the work of our wisdom can be reduced to a likeness with something that’s hardly wise. The careful analysis of facts, which passes through an analysis of the constitution of our bodies, our pelvises, the precarious balance of grace, in the afternoon, forces us in the end to recognize that, under the sun, there’s neither nothing new nor even something. The application of our wisdom, our silence, our gaze, leads us in the end to a bocce ball game with a group of retirees. In a land where the sand is white, the hands of men commanded, the thought of return a painful diversion. That all that is given to us is taken from us the same moment that it’s given, cannot, any longer, arouse disquiet. And if we still fool our hearts with the idea that we have a choice between foresight and slipping from the furious watch of God, suffice it to say our wisdom is lacking.
Freedom’s here under the sky, and it has no features.


—translated from the Italian by Todd Portnowitz