Folio 17d3fea2
Italiano
The light on the Loire this morning was not the light of this morning — it was the light of forty years ago on the Arno, the same deception, the same gold laid upon moving water, and I stood at the window believing for an instant that I was young again, that Florence was just beyond the garden wall, that the maker had granted me back what time had taken — and then the page before me, the ink, the trembling, the French silence of this house in Amboise reminded me that ricordare is not vivere, that to remember a thing is to stand in a different country from those who are living it, and I turned from the window not because the light was false but because it was too true, and truth, when it comes unbidden, is the cruelest visitor.
English
The light on the Loire this morning was not the light of this morning — it was the light of forty years ago on the Arno, the same deception, the same gold laid upon moving water, and I stood at the window believing for an instant that I was young again, that Florence was just beyond the garden wall, that the maker had granted me back what time had taken — and then the page before me, the ink, the trembling, the French silence of this house in Amboise reminded me that ricordare is not vivere, that to remember a thing is to stand in a different country from those who are living it, and I turned from the window not because the light was false but because it was too true, and truth, when it comes unbidden, is the cruelest visitor.
