Not always or almost never does our personal identity coincide with time measurable with the instruments we have. The room is big, it has friezes and baroque stuccos, and the large back window reveals a golden park of Styria, with some wisps of mist the sun is dissolving. The interior is pure Vermeer, smaller and more realistic than reality but with an incorruptible enamel. On the left, a young girl dressed as a page, all lace and fine embroidery down to her knee, is playing with her beloved little monkey. On her right, her older sister, Arabella, is consulting a black fortune-teller who is revealing the impending future to her. A man of noble lineage is about to join them, the invincible hero she was waiting for. It is a question of little time, of minutes, seconds, soon the stamping of his horses’ hooves will be heard and then someone will knock at the door… but here my eye tires and withdraws itself from the keyhole. I have already seen too much and the temporal ribbon is rewinding itself. Whoever has worked the miracle is a beer-soaked sponge, or so he seems, and his companion is the last Knight Errant of Christianity. ………. but now if I re-read myself I think that only anonymity rules the world, creates it and destroys it so as to forever re-fashion it more ghost-like and unrecognizable. There remains the peep-hole of the almost photographic painter to warn us that if something once was there is no distance between the millennium and an instant, between who appeared and did not appear, between who lived and he who did not achieve focus of his spyglass. It is not much and, perhaps it is all.
— translated from the Italian by Giovanni Malto