On one side there was Gino and Rasetti, the mountains, the “black schists,” the crystals, the insects; on the other was Mario, my sister Paola, and the Ternis who detested the mountains and loved stuffy rooms with the windows closed, dimmed lights, and cafés. This latter group loved the paintings of Casorati, the theater of Pirandello, the poetry of Verlaine, Gallimard editions, Proust. They were two incommunicable worlds.

I didn’t know yet which side I would choose. They both attracted me. I hadn’t yet decided if, in my life, I wanted to study beetles, chemistry, or botany, or if, instead, I would paint pictures or write novels. In Rasetti’s and Gino’s world everything was clear, everything would unfold beneath the light of the sun, everything was plausible and without mysteries or secrets. The discussions, on the other hand, that Terni, Paola, and Mario had while sitting on the couch in the living room were tinged with mystery and obscurity, arousing in me a combination of fear and fascination.

“I’m bored!” my mother said. “I have nothing to do anymore, there’s nothing more for me to do in this place. Everyone has left. I’m bored!”

“You’re bored,” my father responded, “because you have no inner life.”

“He is someone,” my mother said, “who is very sophisticated, intelligent, translates from Russian, and does beautiful translations.”

“But,” my father said, “he is very ugly. Jews are notoriously ugly.”

“And you?” said my mother. “You’re not Jewish?”

“I am, in fact, ugly too,” my father said.