Un viaggio chiamato vita
The book consists of 47 short stories about episodes from the writer’s life and travels, divided into three sections. An object, a perfume, a small detail bring to the writer’s mind particular feelings and memories of her life. The first section consists mainly of memories linked to travels (to Asia, Italy, Egypt or South America): the author often focuses on the differences she noticed between the foreign country and the hectic modern Japan. The scent of rosemary transports her to Sicily, the cold reminds her of a winter spent at a spa in Tuscany, the sight of corals evokes memories of a beach full of tiny fragments. From these experiences, the writer draws a series of reflections on life, the importance of memories and man’s connection with man himself, nature and animals. The second section is a varied collection of experiences, people and scattered memories narrated in the writer’s usual delicate style. The third section focuses more on life, people and death: a particular bar or food triggers the memory of a dear departed friend, the death of a dog or the birth of a child. Reference is often made to modern society, so distant from the society of the 1970s in which the writer was a teenager: people have lost human contact, while everyday gestures have turned into automation and coldness. Just as of the via
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You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.
The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning.
And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.
As we count up the memories from one journey, we head off on another. Remembering those who went ahead. Remembering those who will follow after. And someday, we will meet all those people again, out beyond the horizon.
Our destiny is what we want it to be, not what has been carved in stone. It's our life, not someone else's dream.
I would have liked to cry: the make-up stopped me, it looked just right, with the cracks, with the places where it was beginning to flake off, tears would have ruined all that. I could cry later, if I still felt like it.
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