To Joan. And others.
I speak to you directly, because I find it easier to write thinking about just one person.
But the matter doesn’t just concern you.
How are you? I’m writing a novel. A novel about sixteen years. From 1989 to 2005.
In the story there is a bit of ‘everything’. Of me.
One of our mutual friends says that maybe it can be translated into English. I do not know. If she succeeds, it means she is really good at it.
When we met in Lecce, Carl told me I reminded him of Camille Paglia.
In my opinion, he’s wrong. [n.o.t.: in Italian, Paglia rhymes with sbaglia, that means he’s wrong. Milena often speaks rhyming].
But I accepted the compliment, a bit overdone. Soon after, Carl added that I also reminded him of Lina Wertmuller. Maybe for white glasses? I do not know.
And then, I thought: If we translate Sedici, also Carl will understand something about me.
Something more. And so will you. And so will the others. But translating sedici will be a big deal. It’s not up to the translator. But to me. Since I write in a quite strange way. Ok, we’ll try.
Not right away. Not now. Now, I think something could be understood, even in Italian.
And so, dear Joan, if you, after reading, will still wish me to come and see you at your place in S. F., I’ll be glad to come. I’ll be so glad that I’ll manage it somehow. And I’ll write in a way that could be translatable in English as well.
I’d really wish I could come around.
Before, if I can, I’d have a tour in Boston to see Helen.
Actually, I must go to Cupertino, California. Absolutely.
I must because Uma asked me to.
A warm hug.