Berta filava, Còre, Matto e disperatissimo, Sud-est

(Jean, whatever, wherever you are, in minus time-space or plus soul-time, forgive me all this, parenthesis included).

Una frase ben scritta può riapparire ogni volta che s’accende una sigaretta.

Jean Farlow, who was thirty-one and absolutely neurotic, had also apparently developed a strong liking for me. She was handsome in a carved-Indian sort of way, with a burnt sienna complexion. Her lips were like large crimson polyps, and when she emitted her special barking laugh, she showed large dull teeth and pale gums.
She was very tall, wore either slacks with sandals or billowing skirts with ballet slippers, drank any strong liquor in any amount, had had two miscarriages, wrote
stories about animals, painted, as the reader knows, lakescapes, was already nursing the cancer that was to kill her at thirty-three, and was hopelessly unattractive to me.

[Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita]

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