Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Preface
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young man, thought I. He seemed to think he
knew everything, antique art, architecture,
psychology, Death and Hereafter. Medicine seemed
to be his special hobby, he said he was a nerve
specialist and boasted of being a pupil of Charcot’s
as they all do. God help his patients, I said to
myself. As he mentioned the name of the master
of the Salpêtrière I fancied for a moment that I
had seen him before, long, long ago, but I soon
dismissed the thought as absurd, for he looked so
young and boisterous, and I felt so old and weary.
His unceasing swagger, his very youth began to get
on my nerves, and to make matters worse it soon
dawned upon me that this young gentleman was
making mild fun of me the whole time, as young
people are apt to do with old people. He even
tried to make me believe that it was he and not
I who had built San Michele! He said he loved
the place and was going to live there for ever.
At last I told him to leave me alone and let me
go on with my Story of San Michele and my
description of my precious marble fragments
from the villa of Tiberius.
“Poor old man,” said the young fellow with
his patronizing smile, “you are talking through
your hat! I fear you cannot even read your
own handwriting! It is not about San Michele
and your precious marble fragments from the
villa of Tiberius you have been writing the whole
time, it is only some fragments of clay from
your own broken life that you have brought to
light.”
Torre di Materita.
1928.
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