Soccamacha

Dhaka, February 2020 I’m rereading Marco Lodoli's short stories, a writer I love very much, and I’ve noted this phrase. “And I also thought that the sea can fit into a bucket, if the bucket is burst, and that one day it can contain all life, if it’s a day broken by love.” (Marco Lodoli, from “I professori ed altri professori”, Einaudi) I think these are the most fitting words for me to close this year. Because he uses heavy terms like “burst” and “broken” to describe wonderful actions like containing the sea and the whole life. Perhaps the passing of time, the approaching birthday of fifty-one, the feeling that the body can’t hold up as before, but above all memory and mind aren’t as clear as they used to be, make me appreciate those heavy words. Now I’m starting to think that remembering also coincides with forgetting. Growing old is the art of forgetting. As if space were now reduced and full and to insert new things, new words, new names, you had to necessarily erase somethi...