Scan barcode
A review by mean_racoon
One, No One and One Hundred Thousand by Luigi Pirandello
3.5
- Solitude is never where you are; it is always where you are not, and is only possible with a stranger present;
- Good Lord, why is it, then, that you act as if you did not know it? Why is it that you insist upon believing that the only reality is your own, the reality of today, and why do you cry out in angry astonishment that your friend is wrong, although he, poor chap, whatever he might do, could never have within himself the mind that is your own?
- The unfortunate part is that you, my dear friend, will never know, and I shall never be able to tell you, how what you say to me is translated inside me.
- Afflicting need of self-abandonment. You feel yourself relaxing, you abandon yourself.
- Which is to say, they saw in me a Moscarda that was not I, properly speaking, was no one to myself; there were as many Moscardas as there were other individuals, and all of them were more real than I, who had, I repeat, no reality whatsoever so far as I myself was concerned.
-For reality is not a thing conferred upon us or which exists; it is something that we have to manufacture ourselves, if we will to be; and it will never be one for all, one forever, but continuous and subject to infinite mutations.
- Because, in order to behold yourself, you must for a moment halt life within you.
- Good Lord, why is it, then, that you act as if you did not know it? Why is it that you insist upon believing that the only reality is your own, the reality of today, and why do you cry out in angry astonishment that your friend is wrong, although he, poor chap, whatever he might do, could never have within himself the mind that is your own?
- The unfortunate part is that you, my dear friend, will never know, and I shall never be able to tell you, how what you say to me is translated inside me.
- Afflicting need of self-abandonment. You feel yourself relaxing, you abandon yourself.
- Which is to say, they saw in me a Moscarda that was not I, properly speaking, was no one to myself; there were as many Moscardas as there were other individuals, and all of them were more real than I, who had, I repeat, no reality whatsoever so far as I myself was concerned.
-For reality is not a thing conferred upon us or which exists; it is something that we have to manufacture ourselves, if we will to be; and it will never be one for all, one forever, but continuous and subject to infinite mutations.
- Because, in order to behold yourself, you must for a moment halt life within you.