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FALLACI, Oriana

INSHALLAH

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Satisfied, she paused for a thousandth of a second, the time to catch her breath, look around, understand where she was. Then she proceeded in search of the agreeable place in which to explode, and broke into the hippocampus which is the center of memory. Here she found a vault with the remembrance of a childhood which had left nothing to remember but the useless and thoughtless freedom of kids, the the recollection of a squalid adolescence: a taste of youth made melancholic by the awareness of being ugly and mistreated by everybody.

“Come here, get-over-here, do-what-I-tell-you”. She also found the dark image of a basement lit by a tiny window.

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Maybe he couldn't bear the dejection of having proved a fact that even newborns divine, the invincibility of death, and out of consistency he surrendered to it before his time. Or maybe he concluded that, besides constituting the inevitable goal of every thing and every creature, Death is a relief: a repose. And out of impatience, or out of exhaustion, he ran up to it. Could I imitate him? Well, though I can't deny that sometimes Death offers repose or relief, though what we think and desire today doesn't usually correspond to what we'll think or desire tomorrow because every tomorrow is a trap of ugly surprises, my answer is no. I don't think I could run up to Death for impatience or exhaustion. Unless... No, no... I'll never yield, I'll never bend, to its invincibility. I'm too certain that Life is the measure of all, the mainspring of all, the goal of all. And I hate Death too much. I hate it as much as I hate solitude, suffering, pain and the word goodbye..

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