IT IS TIME
But it is time to return to that November afternoon, a clear, fresh afternoon, as peaceful as our house and the stretch of road where we lived. That was when my life really began; all that had gone before was like the preparation, the putting-on of make-up and costumes by those who are to appear on the stage, the lighting, the tuning of the violins, the music … Now I was about to begin my opera. ‘Life is an opera,’ an old Italian tenor, who lived and died here, once told me. And he gave me such a convincing explanation that I ended up believing him. It’s maybe worth while giving it; it will only take a chapter.