1
" I was never a child; I never had a childhood. I cannot count among my memories warm, golden days of childish intoxication, long joyous hours of innocence, or the thrill of discovering the universe anew each day. I learned of such things later on in life from books. Now I guess at their presence in the children I see. I was more than twenty when I first experienced something similar in my self, in chance moments of abandonment, when I was at peace with the world. Childhood is love; childhood is gaiety; childhood knows no cares. But I always remember myself, in the years that have gone by, as lonely, sad, and thoughtful.
Ever since I was a little boy I have felt tremendously alone―and "peculiar".
I don't know why.
It may have been because my family was poor or because I was not born the way other children are born; I cannot tell. I remember only that when I was six or seven years old a young aunt of mind called me vecchio―"old man," and the nickname was adopted by all my family. Most of the time I wore a long, frowning face. I talked very little, even with other children; compliments bored me; baby-talk angered me. Instead of the noisy play of the companions of my boyhood I preferred the solitude of the most secluded corners of our dark, cramped, poverty-stricken home. I was, in short, what ladies in hats and fur coats call a "bashful" or a "stubborn" child; and what our women with bare heads and shawls, with more directness, call a rospo―a "toad."
They were right.
I must have been, and I was, utterly unattractive to everybody. I remember, too, that I was well aware of the antipathy I aroused. It made me more "bashful," more "stubborn," more of a "toad" than ever. I did not care to join in the games played by other boys, but preferred to stand apart, watching them with jealous eyes, judging them, hating them. It wasn't envy I felt at such times: it was contempt; it was scorn. My warfare with men had begun even then and even there. I avoided people, and they neglected me. I did not love them, and they hated me. At play in the parks some of the boys would chase me; others would laugh at me and call me names. At school they pulled my curls or told the teachers tales about me. Even on my grandfather's farm in the country peasant brats threw stones at me without provocation, as if they felt instinctively that I belonged to some other breed. "
― Giovanni Papini , Un uomo finito
2
" I was never a child; I never had a childhood. I cannot count among my memories warm, golden days of childish intoxication, long joyous hours of innocence, or the thrill of discovering the universe anew each day. I learned of such things later on in life from books. Now I guess at their presence in the children I see. I was more than twenty when I first experienced something similar in my self, in chance moments of abandonment, when I was at peace with the world. Childhood is love; childhood is gaiety; childhood knows no cares. But I always remember myself, in the years that have gone by, as lonely, sad, and thoughtful.
Ever since I was a little boy I have felt tremendously alone―and "peculiar".
I don't know why.
It may have been because my family was poor or because I was not born the way other children are born; I cannot tell. I remember only that when I was six or seven years old a young aunt of mind called me [i]vecchio[/i]―"old man," and the nickname was adopted by all my family. Most of the time I wore a long, frowning face. I talked very little, even with other children; compliments bored me; baby-talk angered me. Instead of the noisy play of the companions of my boyhood I preferred the solitude of the most secluded corners of our dark, cramped, poverty-stricken home. I was, in short, what ladies in hats and fur coats call a "bashful" or a "stubborn" child; and what our women with bare heads and shawls, with more directness, call a [i]rospo[/i]―a "toad."
They were right.
I must have been, and I was, utterly unattractive to everybody. I remember, too, that I was well aware of the antipathy I aroused. It made me more "bashful," more "stubborn," more of a "toad" than ever. I did not care to join in the games played by other boys, but preferred to stand apart, watching them with jealous eyes, judging them, hating them. It wasn't envy I felt at such times: it was contempt; it was scorn. My warfare with men had begun even then and even there. I avoided people, and they neglected me. I did not love them, and they hated me. At play in the parks some of the boys would chase me; others would laugh at me and call me names. At school they pulled my curls or told the teachers tales about me. Even on my grandfather's farm in the country peasant brats threw stones at me without provocation, as if they felt instinctively that I belonged to some other breed. "
― Giovanni Papini , Un uomo finito
6
" I know that our efforts all come to nothing. I know the end of us all is nothing, I know that at the end of Time, the reward of our toil will be nothing— and again nothing. I know that all our handiwork will be destroyed. I know that not even ash will be left from the fires that consume us. I know that our ideals, even those we achieve, will vanish in the eternal darkness of oblivion and final non-being. There is no hope, none, in my heart. No promise, none, can I make to myself and to others. No recompense can I expect for my labors. No fruit will be born of my thoughts. The Future—eternal seducer of all men, eternal cause of all effects—offers me nothing but the blank prospect of annihilation. "
― Giovanni Papini , Un uomo finito
7
" The man who is alone, who stands on his own feet, who is stripped bare, who asks for nothing and wants nothing, who has reached the apex of disinterestedness not through blind renunciation but through excess of clear vision, turns to the world which stretches out before him as a burned prairie, as a devastated city —a world in which no churches, asylums, refuges, ideals, are left—and says: “Though you promise me nothing I am still with you, I am still an atom of your energies, my work is part of your work; I am your companion and your mirror as you march on your merciless way. "
― Giovanni Papini , Un uomo finito
12
" Iar noi doi traim, suntem amandoi in viata si mereu aproape, insa orgoliile nebunesti nu ne mai infierbanta mintile, dar, cand trec pe dinaintea celor intamplate, plec capul si - nu stiu de ce - mi se strange inima. Nu simti ce lucru grav, ce lucru frumos a fost prietenia noastra din vremea aceea? Suntem deopotriva alaturi si departe, prietene, eu nu mai stiu nimic despre tine, iar tu nu mai stii nimic despre mine. Dar cand te revad asezat in fata meselor mari si mazgalite ale bibliotecii, in diminetile si dupa-amiezile de munca patimasa, aplecat peste cartile deschise, peste hartia pregatita pentru scris si aud din nou glasul tau care ma intreba sau imi raspundea ceva, atunci inteleg totul, iar tu redevii al meu, intocmai ca in acele zile indepartate ale nelinistitei noastre vegheri. "
― Giovanni Papini , Un uomo finito
15
" E oare prima dată când un fricos își închipuie că e erou, când un literat se crede poet, când un idiot își dă aere de om mare? [...] Asemenea răbufniri de genialitate obosită sunt semnul ticăloșiei și suferinței omului mediocru - acela care nu e nici dobitoc în toată regula, nici geniu suprem, nici plantă care vegetează ani în șir, nici suflet care creează cu furie - nici pachet de materie surdă, nici un stâlp de foc în fața popoarelor. [...] Sunt suspendat între cer și pământ, prea greoi ca să mă înalț spre stele și prea eteric ca să scormonesc în noroi. Sedimente de cultură, reminiscențe poetice, furnicare de gânduri au făcut din mine un om inadaptabil la viața temeinică a valorilor practice și mecanice, dar n-au fost suficiente pentru a mă face vrednic de viața unui rege al intelectului. Măcar să nu fi cunoscut deloc, nici pe departe, nici o clipă, sfâșietoarea bucurie a creației! Să mă fi născut și să fi rămas, o data pentru totdeauna, un biet imbecil fără conștiință, un modest creștin fără remușcări, un idiot cumsecade, fără pretenții! Dar nu! Știu că sunt un imbecil, simt că sunt un idiot, iar acest lucru mă scoate din rândurile idioților perfecți și mulțumiți. Sunt superior atât cât să-nțeleg că nu sunt destul de superior, nimic mai mult. "
― Giovanni Papini , Un uomo finito
19
" N-am încotro: orice-aș face, mie-mi plac întotdeauna extremele. În materie de ființe, nu agreez decât animalele și plantele desăvârșite, decât pe aceia care-și fac cinstit treaba, fără să priceapă altceva, fără să se vânture de ici-colo, pălăvrăgind și urmărindu-și ambițiile, sau geniul adevărat, sufletul măreț, eroul uriaș și solitar ca un munte de noapte. "
― Giovanni Papini , Un uomo finito