Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - In the old Tower - I
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been driven out of San Michele, the labour of a
lifetime. I had built it stone by stone with my
own hands in the sweat of my brow, I had built
it on my knees to be a sanctuary to the Sun
where I was to seek knowledge and light from
the glorious god I had been worshipping my
whole life. I had been warned over and over
again by the fire in my eyes that I was not
worthy to live there, that my place was in the
shade, but I had paid no heed to the warnings.
Like the horses returning to their burning
stables to perish in the flames, I had come back,
summer after summer to the blinding light of San
Michele. Beware of the light, beware of the light!
I have accepted my fate at last, I am too old
to fight a god. I have retreated to my
stronghold in the old tower where I mean to make a
last stand. Dante was still alive when the
monks set to work to build the Tower of Materita,
half monastery, half fortress, strong as the rock
it stands upon. How often has not his bitter
cry of: “Nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi
del tempo felice nella miseria” echoed through its
walls since I came here. But was he right after
all, the Florentine seer? Is it true that there is
no greater suffering than to remember our past
happiness in our misery? I for one do not think
so. It is with joy and not with sorrow that my
thoughts go back to San Michele, where I have
lived the happiest years of my life. But it is
true I do not like to go there myself any more—
I feel as if I were intruding upon sacred ground,
sacred to a past which can never return, when the
world was young and the sun was my friend.
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