Finally, another little volume written, ready for revision. This, it seems, was the most painful of them all; in prose, it was undoubtedly the one that came out more slowly, less spontaneously and more compelled, and thus another offspring of this powerful obligation. Many things come to mind now that, after four years of uninterrupted work, the lines, although not excessively abundant, although fewer than planned, are already something. Something that represents the realization of a good hundreds of hours of work, concentrated effort and inner struggle. The words do not seem more flexible than before; on the contrary, they seem heavier, as if time had only accentuated the responsibility in choosing them. The feeling is not one of relief or satisfaction with the work completed; there is simply the certainty that it is necessary to carry on.