Someone Else's Time on My Hands

The famous photograph reminds me of a recent email I received from my husband. There was a great review in nextbook.org about Elsa Morante.

I always wanted to be a writer. I AM A WRITER! But what I mean to say it that it seems that CREATIVE writing comes from people with BIG lives.

Alberto…

“Can you please take Mattie to the bathroom, she wet her pants?”

Where was I…Alberto & Elsa, the “glamorous” couple spent evenings together in tratorrios with artists, dissidents, philosophers and filmmakers.

Three Jehovah’s witnesses (whom I respectfully ignore) knock at the door, even though there is a no soliciting sign posted outside.

Morante met Morovia at a dinner party where he slipped his key in her pocket.

What on earth is nextbook? “A locus for Jewish literature” and what is my husband doing reading that in the classroom?

In 1943 Morante and Morovia fled the Nazis on the backs of donkeys. With only two books, the Bible and Brothers Karamazov that they were forced to use pages from each as toilette paper along the way and while in exile.

“Scuzse me Mrs. A, my nose is bleeding, can you help me Mrs. A?”

Apparently Morante published a few novels, including, Aracoeli, in 1982 which gave way to her great depression, an attempted suicide and a heart attack. She is said to have suffered because she lost her beauty and could not deal with that.

Mrs. A, I am sending Jonny to your office, if that is ok, he is not following rules today and needs a time out. Is that ok Mrs. A?