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“Am I clear? Am I making myself clear? And yet in Ischia I was happy, full of love. But it was no use, my head always finds a chink to peer through, beyond - above, beneath, on the side - where the fear is. In Bruno’s factory, for example, the bones of the animals cracked in your fingers if you merely touched them, and a rancid marrow spilled out. I was so afraid that I thought I was sick. But was I sick? Did I really have a murmur in my heart? No. The only problem has always been the disquiet in my mind. I can’t stop it, I always have to do, redo, cover, uncover, reinforce, and then suddenly undo, break.”
― Elena Ferrante, The Story of the Lost Child