I face the final days of school with the same roller-coaster ride of emotions the last few years, I live the close of this school year with my usual habit of spreading financial statements, with my instinctive effort to strip my conscience, discovering errors, steps false failures. From this emerges a passionate reading of myself a year lived up to the intensity, a year of sorrow, but of great work on my weaknesses and my emotions. The mineralogy of always thought that I undergo the "suspicion" that consecrate the interpretation del mio mondo, hanno regalato tesori. Una grande forza, un vivido entusiasmo per il mio lavoro, una coriacea fiducia nelle mie scelte passate, nelle mie partenze e nei miei abbandoni. Eppure ieri sera, mentre in macchina tornavo a casa, non riuscivo a cancellare un’ombra di amarezza e di insoddisfazione, un senso oscuro di incompletezza. Annaspo nel cercare una totale congruenza fra i miei propositi e le mie scelte, fra i miei desideri e le mie azioni, fra il copione che avevo steso per la mia recita e la messa in scena finale. Non riesco a vedere il tutto in cui vorrei immergermi, non riesco a dipingere il mio ritratto con tutti i colori che vorrei. Sento che mi sfuggono alcune sfumature e percepisco che la vittima delle riflessioni di stasera è il full and satisfying sense of integrity. Arrived home a few minutes to rethink the next class and also register here for failure in search of a perfect completion of a homogeneous whole. All sheets in front of me, scattered on the kitchen table: I choose to explain what tomorrow, how to concentrate in one hour the thousand details that I would tell my students, everything seems important to me, every line seem worthy of mention, every complaint appears to me an outrage. I understand that there is a subtle correspondence between now and the one just past, that my work is a metaphor for my life, that there is a profound harmony between the woman and Barbara Barbara teacher. I would like not always escaped me anything, I would always do not omit even one sentence, I would always do not delete even a comma. Always wanting a whole, full uniform, I live each and every subtraction lack a sense of loss and discomfort. With these thoughts that crowd my mind an hour also takes in his hands an essay by Sigmund Freud for the last philosophy class and read between the thick lines: "the only safe interpretation is therefore incomplete." There is a book that contains a phrase written for me, there is no book that has even the slightest reference to my anxieties and my questions. I have to give up, I have to give in to the partiality and incompleteness. And yet the books, I resume a sentence of Calvin was talking about a few nights ago, when these thoughts were echoed by those of others
"So also in the city Everything is permitted only through a choice and a refusal accepting the one hand and giving the rest? "Italo Calvino, The Castle of Crossed Destinies
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