Pentru că treaba asta e atît de adevărată, o, daa.
In my parents’ day and well into yours and mine, it used to be the person who fell short. Now it’s the discipline. Reading the classics is too difficult, therefore it’s the classics that are to blame. Today the student asserts his incapacity as a priviledge. I can’t learn it, so there is something wrong with it. And there is something especially wrong with the bad teacher who wants to teach it. There are no more criteria, Mr. Zuckerman, only opinions.
Philip Roth, The Human Stain
A mild October afternoon in Rome. A narrow street, old buildings on both sides. A bookshop. All used books, all in English. A woven basket at the entrance, tagged “free books”. Inside, dim light but good enough to find your way through the many shelves and tables and drawers full of treasures. It smells of old paper and dust. Total silence for a few minutes, followed by a barely audible sound in a corner where there’s an old wooden desk. Seated behind it is a middle aged lady who’s smoking a cigarette and writing something in a notebook. Next to her sleeps a white dog who opens an eye then closes it back in the laziest manner. You feel out of time, at ease to explore the place at slow pace. A bit of heaven.