9 April 2001

The days are improving. This year spring has exploded beyond measure. One day I awake and find the flowers blooming, the air warmer, as the sea gathers the sky's reflection and transforms it into an intense blue. As on every morning I take my scooter to school. The cold is still biting, but the sun holds out the promise that later the temperature will rise. Rising up from the sea are the Faraglioni, the rocks that the cyclops Polyphemus hurled at Odysseus (masquerading as "Nobody") after the Greek had blinded him. Nailed to the sea floor, they have stood there from time immemorial, and neither wars nor earthquakes nor even Etna's violent eruptions have ever caused them to sink. They rise impressively, erect over the water, and bring to mind how much mediocrity, how much sheer pettiness exists in the world. We talk, walk, eat, complete every action that human beings must complete, but, unlike the Faraglioni, we don't remain in the same place, unchanged. We degenerate, Diary, wars kill us, earthquakes debilitate us, lava engulfs us, and love betrays us. And we aren't even immortal. But is this not, perhaps, a good thing?

Yesterday the rocks of Polyphemus stood watching us as he moved convulsively on my body, ignoring my shivers from the cold and my averted eyes, which were pointed toward the moon's reflection in the water. We did everything in silence, as always, in the same way, every time. His face was thrust over my shoulder, and I felt his breath on my neck, no longer warm but cold. His saliva bathed every inch of my skin as if a slow, lazy snail had left his slimy track. His skin no longer recalled the golden, dewy skin I had kissed one summer morning. His lips no longer tasted of strawberry; they lacked any taste at all. At the moment when he offered me his secret potion, he voiced his usual croak of pleasure, increasingly a grunt.