Enzo Quotes

Everything about Enzo whispers of danger, of murder in the name of righteousness. I'm desperate to pull away. I ache for more. I tremble uncontrollably, caught in the middle.

Enzo enters with a sweep of dark robes, bringing with him the scent of wind, night, and death.

As the sun starts to rise, I watch as Raffaele bends over Enzo’s body, the two of us mourning the prince we both loved.

If you could live anywhere in the world where would you live ” “Right here ” Enzo replies. “In your arms.

He is not Enzo, I remind myself. But I don't want him to be. With Enzo, my energy yearned for his power and ambition, all too happy to let him take me into the darkness. But with Magiano... I am able to smile, even to laugh. I am able to sit here and lean back and point out the constellations.

Enzo inherited a throne. Giulietta relied on her royal blood. Queen Maeve rules Beldain because she was born to it. But true rulers are not born. We are made.

She was my rain. She was my unpredictable element. She was my fear. But a racer should not be afraid of rain; a racer should embrace the rain.

How many times have you been called an abomination?” he whispers. “A monster? Worthless?” Too many times.

Set this world on fire, Enzo. With everything you have.

The first time Raffaele ever saw Adelina, it was a stormy-wracked night that changed her life and, indeed, the world. He recalls looking down from the window in his Dalia lodging to see a girl with silver-bright hair, conjuring an illusion of darkness such that he had never seen. He remembers the day she first came to his chambers in Estenzia, when Enzo was still alive and she was still innocent, and the way she looked up at him with her uncertain, damaged gaze. He remembers her test, and what he said to Enzo that night. How long ago that had been. How he had judged her wrongly.

Great." I didn't say thank you, because it seemed wrong. I wanted to call her a bitch and shoot her between the eyes, but then I would have had to shoot Enzo, too. And how would I explain that to the police? She was breaking no laws. Dammit.

Embelish your flaws. They will turn into your assets. And if you become one of us, I will teach you to wield them like an assassin wields a knife.

Don't cry" He says, his voice firm. "You are stronger than that.

Enzo looks up at me. Suddenly, the blackness in his eyes seems to fade, replaced by the familiar warm brown of his irises, the red slashes, the glow of life. I see a hint of his old self there, fighting through the darkness of the Underworld to gaze at me one last time. It is the look he’d given me when we used to dance. This is the real Enzo. “Let me go,” he whispers. It is his voice. It is the voice that once comforted me, gave me strength. And as I try to take in his words, the final tendrils of the tether linking us unravel from around my heart, freeing me.

I reach through our tether, and he shudders at my touch. Do you remember, Enzo? I think sadly. You were the Crown Prince of Kenettra. All you ever wanted was to save the malfettos and rule this nation.

The gods gave us powers, Adelina, because we are born to rule.

Je hoeft je heus niet te verontschuldigen voor Vrolijkheid en Blijheid enzo. Die dingen komen nu eenmaal voor. Sombere raad van Iejoor

No. I cannot let him control me. You are mine, Adelina, Enzo growls. Turn your powers against your own fleet.

I knew all about reading a lot. About how it could take you to a world what was better than the real one. A world where there were adventures and mysteries and magic. Except, of course, books ended eventually, and then you had to go back to being yourself.

I am numb. I don’t know what to do. The absence of my link to Enzo is a yawning chasm, a hollowness I first felt when Teren took Enzo’s life in the Estenzian arena. How long had he been a part of my world? How had my life been before he stepped into it? All I can think is that I am losing him all over again, except that I already lost him.

Did he understand, as those interminable minutes ticked by, that being alone is not the same as being lonely? That being alone is a neutral state… something that exists only in the mind, not in the world, and, like a virus, is unable to survive without a willing host?

I don't know why I pause to watch Raffaele. Perhaps I have always done so, so captivated am I by his beauty. Even now, in the midst of death and destruction, he moves with the grace of someone not of this world. His attention is focused entirely on Enzo. The sight breaks my heart, and a small, lost part of me sparks with light.

Enzo's eyes flick back to me. He does not ask if I will be okay. His silent approval makes me stand taller.

A pledge,” I say again. “To drive fear into those who will confront us.” Violetta hesitates—only for a moment. “To bind us together.” “I pledge myself to the Rose Society,” I begin. “Until the end of my days.” One by one, the others call out the same thing, murmurs at first that turn into firm words. “To use my eyes to see all that happens,” says Sergio. “My tongue to woo others to our side,” says Magiano, with his savage smile. “My ears to hear every secret,” Violetta continues. “My hands,” I finish. “To crush my enemies.” “I will do everything in my power to destroy all who stand in my way.” Right now, what I want is the throne. Enzo’s power. A perfect revenge. And all the Inquisitors, queens, and Daggers in the world won’t be able to stop me.

My dress?” I said in disbelief. “You still have it?” “No, not here. It was too risky to carry around in Terravin. I was afraid someone would see it, so when I got the chance, I stuffed it behind a manger stored up in the loft. Enzo’s probably found it and thrown it out by now.” Berdi maybe, but not Enzo. He never did any more tidying up than he had to. “Why in the gods’ names would you keep it?” I asked. A smile played behind his eyes. “I’m not really sure. Maybe I wanted something to burn in case I never caught up with you.” A disapproving brow shot up. “Or to strangle you with if I did.” I suppressed a grin.

Raffaele reaches Enzo. Flames still burn on Enzo's hands, but for some reason, he doesn't move to attack. Instead, he waits as Raffaele reaches up to curl a hand around the back of his neck, then pulls him close so that their foreheads touch. Tears streak Raffaele's face. Suddenly I remember how he had looked on the day he turned his back on me, the way he had closed his eyes when I begged him to let me stay. It is the same expression he wears now.

Even dogs know how important it is to hear somebody else breathing.

Enzo Vitale. Thirty-four years old. Born November 12th—Scorpio; Lord, help me.

I'm thinking about Enzo, the way he used to be. The hard look in his eyes as he trained me, and then the vulnerability I saw in him whenever we were alone. I don't need to push Sergio to know that Raffaele had asked Enzo to kill him, just as he did to me. Enzo had spared us both. He had been such a strong leader, such a natural crown prince. He would have been an admirable king.

After this happens, Denny will be free to live his life, and I will return to earth in a new form, as a man, and I will find him and shake his hand and comment on how talented he is, and then I will wink at him and say, “Enzo says hello,” and turn and walk quickly away as he calls after me, “Do I know you?” He will call, “Have we met before?

Man's closest relative is not the chimpanzee, as the TV people believe, but is, in fact, the dog. "Enzo" I admire the female sex. The life makers. It must be amazing to have a body that can carry an entire creature inside. "Enzo

The complete stillness of my energy is something I have never felt before. I am full of light. I am confused. A strange mix of guilt and wonder swims inside me. The thought of ruling Kenettra with Enzo at my side - Enzo, who had saved me from certain death, who brought my powers out with a mere touch of his hand on my back, whose own fire awakened my ambitions - thrills me. So why am I here, this close to a boy who is not my prince? Why am I reacting in this way to his touch?

—Enzo no es un príncipe azul, sino un lobo feroz, de los que te ve mejor, te oye mejor y te come mejor.

No matter the opinion, everyone knew their names. The Reaper. Magiano. The Windwalker. The Alchemist. The Young Elites.

Why can’t they see that spiritualism and science are one? That bodies evolve and souls evolve and the universe is a fluid place that marries them both in a wonderful package called a human being.

La prima volta che ho visto Enzo è stato a una festa da ballo e abbiamo ballato questo ballo qui” la sentii dire. “Quanto tempo fa?” “Questo 23 maggio diciassette anni.” “È passato molto tempo.” “Non è passato nemmeno un minuto.

I hereby pledge to serve the Dagger Society, to strike fear into the hearts of those who rule Kenettra, to take by death what belongs to us, and to make the power of our Elites known to every man, woman, and child. Should I break my vow, let the dagger take from me what I took from the dagger. —The Dagger Society Initiation Pledge, by Enzo Valenciano

...do you ever know a moment is important as it's happening, or is it only when you look back that you can see your life is changed?

Gestures are all that I have.

You are not an abomination. You are not merely a malfetto. That is why they fear you. The gods gave us powers, Adelina, because we are born to rule.

Enzo narrows his eyes. He moves as if to grab Raffaele's wrist with his burning hands, to burn him alive from the inside out. "Don't," Raffaele whispers to Enzo. And even though Enzo's eyes stay black, Raffaele does not flinch away. He remains where he is, surrounded by fire. Enzo's eyes flicker. He blinks at Raffaele, confused, and then lowers his face toward him. Raffaele leans forward, closes his eyes, and rests his head against Enzo's shoulder. I do not need to touch them to know that Raffaele's energy is coursing through Enzo now, healing and soothing, calming, pushing against the fury of his own.

It was during that journey to Via Orazio that I began to be made unhappy by my own alienness. I had grown up with those boys, I considered their behavior normal, their violent language was mine. But for six years now I had also been following daily a path that they were completely ignorant of and in the end I had confronted it brilliantly. With them I couldn’t use any of what I learned every day, I had to suppress myself, in some way diminish myself. What I was in school I was there obliged to put aside or use treacherously, to intimidate them. I asked myself what I was doing in that car. They were my friends, of course, my boyfriend was there, we were going to Lila’s wedding celebration. But that very celebration confirmed that Lila, the only person I still felt was essential even though our lives had diverged, no longer belonged to us and, without her, every intermediary between me and those youths, that car racing through the streets, was gone. Why then wasn’t I with Alfonso, with whom I shared both origin and flight? Why, above all, hadn’t I stopped to say to Nino, Stay, come to the reception, tell me when the magazine with my article’s coming out, let’s talk, let’s dig ourselves a cave that can protect us from Pasquale’s driving, from his vulgarity, from the violent tones of Carmela and Enzo, and also—yes, also—of Antonio?

You really work in those conditions?” She, irritated by the contact, pulled her arm away, protesting: “And how do you work, the two of you, how do you work?” They didn’t answer. They worked hard, that was obvious. And at least Enzo in front of him, in the factory, women worn out by the work, by humiliations, by domestic obligations no less than Lila was. Yet now they were both angry because of the conditions _she_ worked in; they couldn’t tolerate it. You had to hide everything from men. They preferred not to know, they preferred to pretend that what happened at the hands of the boss miraculously didn’t happen to the women important to them and that—this was the idea they had grown up with—they had to protect her even at the risk of being killed. In the face of that silence Lila got even angrier. "Fuck off," she said, "you and the working class.

True artists know how to cut their subjects open and bleed them onto the canvas.

Siempre habías sido especial, pero no te había servido de nada

Beware of anyone who says, “I love you” without hesitation; they’ve had a lot of practice saying it.

Don’t get that look in your eyes.” “What look?” I rolled my eyes. “That look that says you want to do something illegal to anyone you think is too close to me.” Not that I hate that it’s his first instinct. Something might be wrong with me, but that’s fucking hot. I would never in a million years tell Enzo that, though. He would take it as a reason to do something insane.

Movies were movies, whether they were old or new. They always captivated me, pulled me into worlds where anything was possible. Worlds where there were adventures and surprises, and life was never dull.

Enzo thought ends were disappointing. He said when you were really immersed in a story, you started to have expectations. And the end was never as great as you imagined it could have been. Even though I mostly agreed with him, I couldn't help wanting to know everything. I was always looking for more.

Reparei que ela movia o corpo ritmicamente, pequenos movimentos dos pés, dos flancos, dos ombros. Fixei os olhos nas suas costas, perplexa. “A primeira vez que vi Enzo foi num baile e dançámos esta música”, ouvi-a dizer. “Há quanto tempo?” “Dezassete anos neste 23 de maio.” “Já passou muito tempo.” “Não passou um minuto sequer.

That which you manifest is before you.

To live everyday as if it had been stolen from death, that is how I would like to live.

I was born the destroyer, not the destroyed

It’s good to ask questions that make people uncomfortable.

People change. Thank God. I can't imagine a world where everyone's the same as they were in high school.

I’ve never feared death, Enzo. I’m only afraid to live and it all be for nothing.

I like fish; no fish business for me. Tuball's say. Enzo's Lemorine pet.

It’s too big,” I choke, and Enzo laughs darkly. “You’ll get used to it, little prey,” he promises darkly. “Need to get you ready. Ryder.

I've never feared death, Enzo. I'm only scared to live and it all be for nothing.

erased my Enzo, she said, the person I was most fond of. Your father erases everything

You’re strange,” I tell him finally. Simon smiles. “He fits right in, doesn’t he?” Meeting Enzo’s stare again, I say, “I suppose he does.

I’m swept away by the feel of his mouth moving expertly against mine. Enzo doesn’t kiss—he devours, just like the beasts he swims alongside.

The flat was large and airy, sparsely furnished with sleek, modern pieces; no walls separated living spaces, except the bedroom. Vintage posters advertising the 24 Hours of Le Mans and the Grand Prix de Monaco decorated the walls. There was a picture of Steve McQueen, leaning against his famous Ford Mustang, and another of Carroll Shelby, the legendary American automaker going face-to-face with Enzo Ferrari, his even more legendary Italian counterpart.

He had loved Enzo. Loved him. And who cared if it was the love of a fifteen - and then a sixteen-year-old. Why did that make any less? They were older than those two idiots in Romeo and Juliet. Why did everyone no longer a teenager automatically dismiss any feeling you had then? Who cared if he'd grow out of it? That didn't make it any less true in those painful and euphoric days when it was happening. The truth was always now, even if you were young. Especially if you were young.

What can I do but force myself to remember? Try to imprint what I know on my soul, a thing that has no surface, no sides, no pages, no form of any kind. Carry it so deeply in the pockets of my existence that when I open my eyes and look down at my new hands with their thumbs that are able to close tightly around their fingers, I will already know. I will already see.

Pretty soon, it would be like Lizzie had never been a real person at all. If Enzo were there, I could have told him it scared me how Lizzie was already becoming irrelevant. He would have understood or maybe he would have made everything more complicated.

The lieutenant looks somewhat taken aback that Uncle Enzo is concerning himself with such a tiny detail It is as if the don were going up and down highways picking up litter or something. But he nods respectfully, having just learned something: details matter.

When we hear the phrase “rescue animal,” we tend to think of a dog or cat being rescued by a human. But when Enzo came into my life, I learned that more often than not, the rescued animal is the human, and the rescuer usually has four legs (or sometimes three).

Enzo no dice nada pero su cabeza no hace más que dar vueltas. Ya vuelven a estar con lo mismo, <>, <>, hace semanas que lo escucha por todo el Liceo. Parecen palabras inocentes y, sin embargo, son peligrosas porque en cuanto eres capaz de llamar <> a tu vecino, se te hace fácil llamarlo <>.

BELONG You said I belong to you And I agree But the quality of that belonging Is a question of some importance. I do not belong to you Like a purchase Something ordered and sold And delivered in a box To be put up and shown off To friends and admirers. I would not belong to you that way And I know you would not have me so. I will tell you how I belong to you. I belong to you like a ring on a finger A symbol of something eternal. I belong to you like a heart in a chest Beating in time to another heart. I belong to you like a word on the air Sending love to your ear. I belong to you like a kiss on your lips Put there by me, in the hope of more to come. And most of all I belong to you Because in where I hold my hopes I hold the hope that you belong to me. It is a hope I unfold for you now like a gift. Belong to me like a ring And a heart And a word And a kiss And like a hope held close. I will belong to you like all these things And also something more Something we will discover between us And will belong to us alone. You said I belong to you And I agree. Tell me you belong to me, too. I wait for your word And hope for your kiss. Love you. Enzo.

Movies were movies, whether they were old or new. They always captivated me, pulled me into worlds where anything was possible. Worlds where there were adventures and surprises, and life was never dull. The only thing I didn't like about movies was when the credits rolled and returned me to real life.

Richard Branson's Thoughts While Drinking Coffee at the Ritz I can't decide whether to buy an Aston Martin One-77, a Saleen S7, a Ferrari Enzo, a Leblanc Mirabeau, a Lamborghini Reventon, a Bugatti Veyron 16.4 Grand Sport or a Koenigsegg CCXR. Hmm... What the hell, I'll get them all. It's good to be a fucking billionaire.

And for a second, a second he would relive for years to come, Adam found himself considering it. Would it really be so bad? Wade didn't look like someone who would ever take his time about anything, and if it was over quick, who would really be harmed...? He would. The thought of Wade's hands on his bare skin alone gave him goosebumps, already felt like a violation, but if... If he deserved this. (Did he?) If Wade has spotted in him - as he obviously had - that corruption at his heart, that little piece of unfixable brokenness - It's not real love, Marty said. We're just messing around, Enzo said. Maybe it was all true. Maybe this is what happened to people like him. (People like what?)

Beware the whimsy of Fate,...She is a mean bitch of a lab.

She wanted all: the passion, the power, the knowledge. The life.

Self-destruction is inevitable because existence is a full-time job.

Emigrare è un diritto, fuggire in massa dalle bombe e dalla miseria una neccessità.

Se porti le firme per una legge contro i condannati nella politica al tuo partito, e ti cacciano, allora non è democratico.

When she turns, I think all of our eyes widen. “What are those?” Enzo asks, in a strangled tone. She shimmies, and the little Christmas puddings attached to her nipples jiggle. “Tassels! I ordered them from the googirl.” Maverick half groans, half laughs. “I’m going to confiscate your card.” “I’ll give you mine,” I breathe in delight. “You can have all of them. All of my cards.” Take my fucking money.

The thing is, no matter how sudden or gradual a family member's death is, there never seems to be enough time to say: "Goodbye." But, then again, how does say "goodbye" to a person who loves you, sins and all?

Life is going to try to push you under the water—stand on you, smashing you to the ground way down below. It’s dark and cold, and you’ll feel as though you’re suffocating. You’ll be alone. So fucking alone. Don’t drown.

Come on, I need to call you something cute.” He pulled open the restaurant door and grinned. “I’ve got it.” “What?” “I’ll call you mia polpetta.” My heart fluttered. “Italian! That’s good, I like it. What does it mean?” I asked as I led the way toward the room at the back we’d booked to accommodate our large group. Behind me, Enzo put his hand on the small of my back and began to laugh. “My little meatball. Now smile, polpetta, we’re on.

Enzo showed a flair for words early and wrote his first story when he was seven, entitled "The horrible sock that smelled bad and ate Pomona Falls except for my house," in which a large sock, mutated by its own horrible unwashed smell, started eating its way through the contents of an entire town and was thwarted only when the heroes Enzo and Magdy first punched it into submission and then threw it into a swimming pool filled with laundry soap.

Stop. I told you to call me Janis. You’re always so formal. I blame Enzo,” she told Vivian. “His grandfather was a real stickler for the rules. You know he kicked someone out of a dinner party once for using the wrong fork? Started a whole international incident because the guest was the son of a UN ambassador. Though to be fair, you’d expect the son of a UN ambassador to know which fork is used for salads and which is used for entrées. Isn’t that right?

La città nascondeva inclinazione pedagogica. Senza volerti insegnare nulla ti costringeva ad apprendere, fra banalità, segreti pregevoli. I Napoletani li succhiavano col latte, ma ce n'era per tutti. Bastava stare attenti, riflettere.

Quella laggiù, dunque, quel vasto presepio di luci sparse tra macchie d'alberi dalle colline al mare, quell'immota distesa d'acqua nel grembo fra edifici e monti, in cui il Vesuvio verberava fuochi e le case barbagli d'oro vecchio, era Napoli.

Everyone knew Enzo. He was a repeater and at least a couple of times had been dragged through the classrooms with a card around his neck on which Maestro Ferraro, a tall, very thin man, with very short gray hair, a small, lined face, and worried eyes, had written “Dunce.” Nino on the other hand was so good, so meek, so quiet that he was well known and liked, especially by me. Naturally Enzo hardly counted, scholastically speaking, we kept an eye on him only because he was aggressive.

Pietro fece cenno di sì e sembrò pronto a chiudere la serata. Ma poi si rivolse a Enzo: «È entusiasmante, certo, ma se è come dici tu queste macchine prenderanno il posto degli uomini, tante competenze spariranno, alla Fiat le saldature già le fanno i robot, si perderanno moltissimi posti di lavoro». Enzo prima acconsentì, poi sembrò ripensarci, alla fine ricorse all’unica persona cui attribuisse autorità: «Lina dice che è un bene: i lavori umilianti e quelli che rimbecilliscono devono sparire».

would look for us. When I think of the pleasure of being free, I think of the start of that day, of coming out of the tunnel and finding ourselves on a road that went straight as far as the eye could see, the road that, according to what Rino had told Lila, if you got to the end arrived at the sea. I felt joyfully open to the unknown. It was entirely different from going down into the cellar or up to Don Achille’s house. There was a hazy sun, a strong smell of burning. We walked for a long time between crumbling walls invaded by weeds, low structures from which came voices in dialect, sometimes a clamor. We saw a horse make its way slowly down an embankment and cross the street, whinnying. We saw a young woman looking out from a balcony, combing her hair with a flea comb. We saw a lot of small snotty children who stopped playing and looked at us threateningly. We also saw a fat man in an undershirt who emerged from a tumbledown house, opened his pants, and showed us his penis. But we weren’t scared of anything: Don Nicola, Enzo’s father, sometimes let us pat his horse, the children were threatening in our courtyard, too, and there was old Don Mimì who showed us his disgusting thing when we were coming home from school. For at least three hours, the road we were walking on did not seem different from the segment that we looked out on every day. And I felt no responsibility for the right road. We held each other by the hand, we walked side by side, but for me, as usual, it was as if Lila were ten steps ahead and knew precisely what to do, where to go. I was used to feeling second in everything, and so I was sure that to her, who had always been first, everything

The important thing is, Hiro, that you have to understand the Mafia way. And the Mafia way is that we pursue larger goals under the guise of personal relationships. So, for example, when you were a pizza guy you didn't deliver pizzas fast because you made more money that way, or because it was some kind of a fucking policy. You did it because you were carrying out a personal covenant between Uncle Enzo and every customer. This is how we avoid the trap of self-perpetuating ideology. Ideology is a virus. So getting this chick back is more than just getting a chick back. It's the concrete manifestation of an abstract policy goal. And we like concrete—right, Vic?

We've got two kinds of language in our heads. The kind we're using now is acquired. It patterns our brains as we're learning it. But there's also a tongue that's based in the deep structures of the brain, that everyone shares. These structures consist of basic neural circuits that have to exist in order to allow our brains to acquire higher languages." "Linguistic infrastructure," Uncle Enzo says. "Yeah. I guess 'deep structure' and 'infrastructure' mean the same thing. Anyway, we can access those parts of the brain under the right conditions. Glossolalia -- speaking in tongues -- is the output side of it, where the deep linguistic structures hook into our tongues and speak, bypassing all the higher, acquired languages. Everyone's known that for some time." "You're saying there's an input side, too?" Ng says. "Exactly. It works in reverse. Under the right conditions, your ears -- or eyes -- can tie into the deep structures, bypassing the higher language functions. Which is to say, someone who knows the right words can speak words, or show you visual symbols, that go past all your defenses and sink right into your brainstem. Like a cracker who breaks into a computer system, bypasses all the security precautions, and plugs himself into the core, enabling him to exert absolute control over the machine." "In that situation, the people who own the computer are helpless," Ng says. "Right. Because they access the machine at a higher level, which has now been overridden. In the same sense, once a neurolinguistic hacker plugs into the deep structures of our brain, we can't get him out -- because we can't even control our own brain at such a basic level.

Voleva farmi credere che sarebbe nato presto un centro di quel genere anche a Napoli. Avevo pensato: a Milano forse sì, sicuramente in Unione sovietica, ma qui no, qui sono follie della tua testa incontrollabile dentro le quali stai trascinando anche il povero, devotissimo Enzo. Andarsene invece. Filar via definitivamente, lontano dalla vita che avevamo sperimentato fin dalla nascita. Insediarsi in territori ben organizzati dove tutto era possibile. Me l'ero battuta infatti. Ma solo per scoprire, nei decenni a venire, che mi ero sbagliata, che si trattava di una catena di anelli sempre più grandi: il rione rimandava alla città, la città all'Italia, l'Italia all'Europa, l'Europa a tutto il pianeta. E oggi la vedo così: non è il rione a essere malato, non è Napoli, è il globo terrestre, è l'universo, o gli universi. E l'abilità consiste nel nascondere o nascondersi lo stato vero delle cose.

Nothing is isolated. Do one thing, however small, and it will affect something else on the other side of the world" "But the surest way to slow your own progress is to rush yourself into situations you’re not yet ready for.”" "When you’re pushed to extreme fear or anger, your body magnifies your energy tenfold, sometimes a hundredfold. It isn’t like this for everyone" “I was wrong. Passion is bright and warm . . . but passion has a dark side too. It links with fear. Our hearts fill with terror at the thought of harm coming to our loved ones, don’t they? You cannot have love without fear. The two coexist. In you, your alignment with passion instead fed your fear and fury. It made you darker. The more you love someone, the more unsteady your powers become. Your growing passion for Enzo made you volatile. It led to you losing control over your powers, powers that had grown to dangerous strengths. That, coupled with your anger and bitterness, has made you incredibly unpredictable.

Řekl jí, že na Lilu myslí ve dne v noci, ale ne s normální touhou, touha po ní se nepodobá té, kterou zná. Ve skutečnosti ji nechce. Tedy, nechce ji tak, jak obvykle chce ženský, aby je dostal pod sebe, obrátil je, převrátil je, rozpáral je, rozmlátil je, dupal po nich a rozdrtil je. Nechce ji, aby si ji vzal a zapomněl na ni. Chce ji s její bystrou hlavou plnou nápadů. Chce ji s její tvořivostí. A chce ji, ne aby ji zničil, ale aby mu vydržela. Nechce ji, aby ji opíchal, to slovo mu ve spojení s Lilou vadí. Chce ji, aby ji mohl líbat a objímat. Chce ji, aby ho hladila, pomáhala mu, vedla ho, rozkazovala mu. Chce ji, aby viděl, jak se v průběhu času mění, jak stárne. Chce ji, aby s ní věci probíral a aby mu pomáhala věci promyslet. Chápeš? Mluvil o ní tak, jak se mnou, se mnou, se kterou se brzo ožení, nikdy nemluvil. Přísahám, že to tak je. Mumlal: můj brácha Marcello, ten debil Stefano a Enzo se svým prdelním ksichtem, co ty z Liny pochopili? Uvědomili si, o co přišli, o co by mohli přijít? Ne, nejsou na to dost inteligentní. Jen já vím, co ona je, kdo je. Já jsem poznal její pravou povahu. A trpím při pomyšlení, jak se ničí.

Avevano ragione i Napoletani, che dai Greci antichi discendevano, quando, di fronte alla sventura, al dolore, borbottavano rassegnati: «Accossì adda ì», ben sapendo che nessuno, nulla modificano il corso delle cose. E che però niente al mondo dura un'eternità. Ogni fenomeno deve per forza generarne un altro, che gli somiglia perché è figlio, ma è pure diversissimo. Così dopo la pioggia viene il sereno, dopo il brutto il bello. Se non ci fossero dolore, brutto, pioggia, come gusteresti il contrario? Tu aspetta e ciò che deve avvenire avverrà. Se agisci per cambiarlo o evitarlo, vuol dire che doveva andare in questa "nuova" direzione. Il destino non puoi mai farlo fesso.

First of all, we should not forget that the concept of fascism has frequently been used even after World War II, and not only in order to define the military dictatorships of Latin America. In 1959, Theodor Adorno wrote that ‘the survival of National Socialism within democracy’ was potentially more dangerous than ‘the survival of fascist tendencies against democracy’.2 In 1974, Pier Paolo Pasolini depicted the anthropological models of neoliberal capitalism as a ‘new fascism’ compared to which the regime of Mussolini appeared irremediably archaic, as a kind of ‘paleofascism’.3 And in even more recent decades, many historians seeking to provide interpretations of Berlusconi’s Italy recognized its intimacy—if not its filiation—with classical fascism

Ah, Lina Cerullo, you are beyond correction. Why did you make that list? You don’t want to be exploited? You want to improve your condition and the condition of these people? You’re convinced that you, and they, starting from here, from what you are now, will join the victorious march of the proletariat of the whole world? No way. March to become what? Now and forever workers? Workers who slave from morning to night but are empowered? Nonsense. Hot air to sweeten the pill of toil. You know that it’s a terrible condition, it shouldn’t be improved but eliminated, you’ve known it since you were a child. Improve, improve yourself? You, for example, are you improved, have you become like Nadia or Isabella? Is your brother improved, has he become like Armando? And your son, is he like Marco? No, we remain us and they are they. So why don’t you resign yourself? Blame the mind that can’t settle down, that is constantly seeking a way to function. Designing shoes. Getting busy setting up a shoe factory. Rewriting Nino’s articles, tormenting him until he did as you said. Using for your own purposes the installments from Zurich, with Enzo. And now demonstrating to Nadia that if she is making the revolution, you are even more. The mind, ah yes, the evil is there, it’s the mind’s discontent that causes the body to get sick. I’ve had it with myself, with everything. I’ve even had it with Gennaro: his fate, if all goes well, is to end up in a place like this, crawling to some boss for another five lire. So? So, Cerullo, take up your responsibilities and do what you have always had in mind: frighten Soccavo, eliminate his habit of fucking the workers in the drying room. Show the student with the wolf face what you’ve prepared...

«Quando una persona non ha scopo per vivere, spegne lentamente la fiamma dell'animo. La riduce all'essenziale. Ma il fenomeno veramente strano è un altro. Questa persona avvertirà, pian piano, disgustoso piacere, forse l'unico che ne accompagni la squallida esistenza: il piacere della degradazione. Gusto di sporcizia, abbandono. E' difficile spiegarlo, ma l'ho notato nella gente che vive nei vicoli, nei fondaci. Come se, nell'infimo, si sentisse ad agio: senza responsabilità superiori.» «Ma facciamo tutti così» mormorò lei. «Ci lasciamo andare. Perché nessuno decide della propria vita. Non sa scegliere. O non può. Scelgano gli altri, le cose, al posto nostro: questa pure non è degradazione? E però, se scegliessimo, che ne conseguirebbe? Avventure dolorose, angoscia». «Ne varrebbe sempre la pena. Perché l'angoscia è segno di vita, è indizio che ancora si desidera futuro. E' quando s'è sicuri di non averlo che ci s'infetta».

Sumerian culture -- the society based on me -- was another manifestation of the metavirus. Except that in this case, it was in a linguistic form rather than DNA." "Excuse me," Mr. Lee says. "You are saying that civilization started out as an infection?" "Civilization in its primitive form, yes. Each me was a sort of virus, kicked out by the metavirus principle. Take the example of the bread-baking me. Once that me got into society, it was a self-sustaining piece of information. It's a simple question of natural selection: people who know how to bake bread will live better and be more apt to reproduce than people who don't know how. Naturally, they will spread the me, acting as hosts for this self-replicating piece of information. That makes it a virus. Sumerian culture -- with its temples full of me -- was just a collection of successful viruses that had accumulated over the millennia. It was a franchise operation, except it had ziggurats instead of golden arches, and clay tablets instead of three-ring binders. "The Sumerian word for 'mind,' or 'wisdom,' is identical to the word for 'ear.' That's all those people were: ears with bodies attached. Passive receivers of information. But Enki was different. Enki was an en who just happened to be especially good at his job. He had the unusual ability to write new me -- he was a hacker. He was, actually, the first modern man, a fully conscious human being, just like us. "At some point, Enki realized that Sumer was stuck in a rut. People were carrying out the same old me all the time, not coming up with new ones, not thinking for themselves. I suspect that he was lonely, being one of the few -- perhaps the only -- conscious human being in the world. He realized that in order for the human race to advance, they had to be delivered from the grip of this viral civilization. "So he created the nam-shub of Enki, a countervirus that spread along the same routes as the me and the metavirus. It went into the deep structures of the brain and reprogrammed them. Henceforth, no one could understand the Sumerian language, or any other deep structure-based language. Cut off from our common deep structures, we began to develop new languages that had nothing in common with each other. The me no longer worked and it was not possible to write new me. Further transmission of the metavirus was blocked." "Why didn't everyone starve from lack of bread, having lost the bread-making me?" Uncle Enzo says. "Some probably did. Everyone else had to use their higher brains and figure it out. So you might say that the nam-shub of Enki was the beginnings of human consciousness -- when we first had to think for ourselves. It was the beginning of rational religion, too, the first time that people began to think about abstract issues like God and Good and Evil. That's where the name Babel comes from. Literally it means 'Gate of God.' It was the gate that allowed God to reach the human race. Babel is a gateway in our minds, a gateway that was opened by the nam-shub of Enki that broke us free from the metavirus and gave us the ability to think -- moved us from a materialistic world to a dualistic world -- a binary world -- with both a physical and a spiritual component.

È stata la prima e l’ultima volta in cui ha cercato di chiarirmi il sentimento del mondo dentro cui si muoveva. Finora, disse – e qui riassumo a parole mie di adesso –, ho creduto che si trattasse di momenti brutti che venivano e poi passavano, come una malattia di crescenza. Ti ricordi quando ti ho raccontato che s’era spaccata la pentola di rame? E del capodanno del 1958, quando i Solara ci spararono addosso, ti ricordi? Gli spari furono la cosa che mi fece meno paura. Mi spaventò invece che i colori dei fuochi d’artificio fossero taglienti – il verde e il viola soprattutto erano affilati –, che ci potessero squartare, che le scie dei razzi strusciassero su mio fratello Rino come lime, come raspe, e gli spaccassero la carne, che facessero sgocciolare fuori da lui un altro mio fratello disgustoso che o rimettevo subito dentro – dentro la sua forma di sempre –, oppure mi si sarebbe rivoltato contro per farmi male. Per tutta la vita non ho fatto altro, Lenù, che arginare momenti come quelli. Mi faceva paura Marcello e mi proteggevo con Stefano. Mi faceva paura Stefano e mi proteggevo con Michele. Mi faceva paura Michele e mi proteggevo con Nino. Mi faceva paura Nino e mi proteggevo con Enzo. Ma proteggere che significa, è solo una parola. Dovrei farti, adesso, un elenco minuto di tutte le coperture grandi e piccole che mi sono costruita per starmene nascosta, e invece non mi sono servite. Ti ricordi quanto mi faceva orrore il cielo di notte a Ischia? Voi dicevate com’è bello, ma io non potevo. Ci sentivo un sapore di uovo marcio col tuorlo gialloverdognolo chiuso dentro l’albume e dentro il guscio, un uovo sodo che si spacca. Avevo in bocca stelle-uova avvelenate, la loro luce era di una consistenza bianca, gommosa, si attaccava ai denti insieme alla nerezza gelatinosa del cielo, la tritavo con disgusto, sentivo uno scricchiolio di granuli. Mi spiego? Mi sto spiegando? Eppure a Ischia ero contenta, piena d’amore. Ma non serviva, la testa trova sempre uno spiraglio per guardare oltre – sopra, sotto, di lato –, dove c’è lo spavento. Nella fabbrica di Bruno, per esempio, mi si spezzavano le ossa degli animali sotto le dita solo a sfiorarle e ne usciva un midollo rancido, ho provato una tale repulsione che ho creduto di essere malata. Ma ero malata, avevo veramente il soffio al cuore? No. L’unico problema è sempre stato l’agitazione della testa. Non la posso fermare, devo sempre fare, rifare, coprire, scoprire, rinforzare, e poi all’improvviso disfare, spaccare. Tu prendi Alfonso, mi ha messo ansia fin da quando era ragazzino, ho sentito che il filo di cotone che lo teneva insieme stava per rompersi. E Michele? Michele si credeva chissà chi, e invece è bastato trovare la linea di contorno e tirare, ah, ah ah, l’ho spezzato, ho spezzato il suo cotone e l’ho ingarbugliato con quello di Alfonso, materia di maschio dentro materia di maschio, la tela che tessi di giorno si disfa di notte, la testa trova il modo. Ma serve a poco, il terrore resta, se ne sta sempre nello spiraglio tra una cosa normale e l’altra. Se ne sta lì in attesa, l’ho sempre sospettato, e da stasera lo so di sicuro: non regge niente, Lenù, anche qua nella pancia, la creatura sembra che duri e invece no. Ti ricordi quando mi sono sposata con Stefano e volevo far ricominciare il rione punto e daccapo, solo cose belle, il brutto di prima non ci doveva essere più? Quant’è durato? I sentimenti gentili sono fragili, con me l’amore non resiste. Non resiste l’amore per un uomo, non resiste nemmeno l’amore per i figli, presto si buca. Guardi nel foro e vedi la nebulosa delle buone intenzioni confondersi con quella delle cattive. Gennaro mi fa sentire in colpa, questo coso qui dentro la pancia è una responsabilità che mi taglia, mi graffia. Voler bene scorre insieme al voler male, e io non riesco, non riesco a condensarmi intorno a nessuna volontà sana.