Folio 8ecd202b
Italiano
The light on the canal this morning was not the light of Florence — it is thinner, more hesitant, as if the air itself is uncertain whether to let the sun through. I watched a heron stand so still at the water's edge that I could not tell where the bird ended and its reflection began, and I thought: this is what old age does to a man — he becomes indistinguishable from the stillness around him. The hand trembles more now, yes, but the eye still catches what it catches. A leaf turned on the water, and for a moment I saw the spiral again — that form that is everywhere, in shells, in water, in the way hair grows from the scalp — and I reached for the page because the thought would not wait. La mano trema, ma l'occhio non mente. The French servants speak of rain coming. Perhaps. The sky says nothing yet.
English
The light on the canal this morning was not the light of Florence — it is thinner, more hesitant, as if the air itself is uncertain whether to let the sun through. I watched a heron stand so still at the water's edge that I could not tell where the bird ended and its reflection began, and I thought: this is what old age does to a man — he becomes indistinguishable from the stillness around him. The hand trembles more now, yes, but the eye still catches what it catches. A leaf turned on the water, and for a moment I saw the spiral again — that form that is everywhere, in shells, in water, in the way hair grows from the scalp — and I reached for the page because the thought would not wait. The hand trembles, but the eye does not lie. The French servants speak of rain coming. Perhaps. The sky says nothing yet.
