Without another… and (nicer) topic, today I want to say something about my hands.
My hand is not defective, so it has, like all the others, five fingers.
If anyone were seized by the melancholy idea of wanting to examine my hands, if he is easily impressed, he would flee, and then come back blindfolded to give me a lecture…… useless, I would say! … ..
What would that person say to me?
“Shame! A girl your age has hands in such disastrous conditions! Cat scratches, shreds and small dog bites are the only elegant ornaments of your poor hands!
And as if this were not enough you have the bad habit of chewing your nails!
I am convinced that you are a mindless girl!” I would remain confused, disappointed and without a word.
As if! Should I therefore bear to hear myself insulted by an anonymous person, by someone? No!
With a serious act of will I will try not to gnaw my nails anymore, so the Unknown will take an interest in his business and will not be intrigued by mine.
And that person, who has unscrupulously offended me, is to be hoped; he will be at least so kind as to tell me a word of praise for my good and tenacious will…
My respectable hands
Italy, December 13, 1944
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