The man with the blue finger
Translation: Paola Vagioni
Distances and spaces were his primary issue. We was trying to convey in writing, hidden mental schemata. But just before beginning his story, luck or need, he knew not yet, dripped on his finger. It had the color of blue. The ink penetrated him. His body was its cartridge. He felt inside him this blue blood. It was so sudden. And yet he was not bewildered. It wasn't a new relationship. He knew it from before. It was a living memory. It belonged to him and he belonged to it without compromises. It could have been luck, although he did not believe in luck. It could have been need, although he did not live without it. It did not matter. He had chosen. He would write the story of blue. With his fingers he reached a fountain pen. As soon as he touched the feather, the ink dripped anew. But this time, it engraved the paper. It was as if someone else was writing. He was not feeling any difficulty. Nothing could stop the blue haemorrhage. It was meant. That is what he said to himself while the torrent flooded his sheets. History had decided. He had only chosen. He looked at his blue finger and followed the rhythm of the fountain pen. The feather was ceaselessly pounding the paper anvil. With the weight of the ink, the paper became a wound and the wound earth. Between the lines he was creating a new world. The world of the feather was monochromatic and plain and yet, it had inside it the whole world. He felt all the power of writing. Neither the luck of Icarus nor the need of Daedalus existed. The single feather was bleeding for the new world. It registered every moment of the immortality of blue. With the strange writing, the opus was creating the being and the insignificant was taking shape. Nothing else mattered. The ocean of blue was washing anew over the dry land. Every wave became a movement and every movement, a caress. Distances had become small and spaces big. Thus time was written.