There is no maturity or experience capable of eliminating the poignant frustration when we come across an error—exactly that, an error—in a literary work already written and already revised by us. What to say? Something seems certain: they are there, and will always be there. It is a truly indescribable feeling to find, there, the irrefutable proof of carelessness, and then to feel your hand scratching like Kafka’s to light a big fire and throw the botched work there. It does not matter how much time passes, nor how much is learned: it is not possible to overcome, neither the error, nor the frustration.