Lena Und Milena Velba

Once upon a time ... The salesman

All stories back to the memory of those who have lived, all return to make us smile or torment. And it is amazing they can do both things simultaneously. Who has not smiled in remembering the pain inflicted by an old flame?, Who has not had to understand that the blue days that summer of his childhood happy have no return?

Memory is a strange thing, stores memories and impressions that will be useful in the future, but also saved as a treasure, which is amazing not having released yet, the light of an autumn day , the position of a woman leaning on the doorframe. Every moment is a moment of supreme survival beyond which expires languidly not return, and only some oblique light, or a certain aroma floating in the wind can bring back for a second, just a fleeting second, the touch of that other skin or the eyes of a friend before becoming strange.

Among the twelve and seventeen years I had the best friends a man could want, each one distinct from the others, each an indispensable instrument for the melody of that group that we formed. With them than he probably enjoyed were the best days of my life, the most unfortunate too, that the most exciting urban landscape of my childhood, and remember it all again I want to laugh out loud and then, at this distance I now both of them away, made of time and new events such as myself to mourn as the years pass finally began to understand that none of this will come back.

Proust knew as he savored the madeleine dipped in tea, as understood Nabokov described his Lolita and unnecessarily entertaining details that then Humbert, Humbert old and sick, prisoner in his cell memories return between anxiety and spasms cough: there is something beautifully tragic in every moment of the past, believing that the time has left us and not coming back. As he tells Achilles to Briseis, "You will never be more beautiful than you are now, we'll never be here."

But if each moment is so precious, if every moment is unique, would not it be reasonable to live intensely, live alone at present, carpe diem? Why then this effort, some men, to return to the past? Let me answer at once: it is much more beautiful when we know unique, unique as her lips parted or the end of the summer warm and stormy, and is finding that beauty, aesthetic pleasure that is his unforgivable loss, which perpetually keeps us returning to the meeting places of those moments that shone a fleeting moment, like rowing boats against the current, constantly pushed into the past.