Time may be, at the end of the day, just a long corridor immobilized in the matter, a train with no head or tail. The matter is slower than our humble steps. We run, dance, frolic, having no echoes but this silence higher than our natures, more immense than our hopes, just as profound as our ignorance.
My first editor, the beautiful Antonio d'Alfonso, had already told me, a few years after the publication of my first book, and in front of the silence that had been granted, that I should learn to write in English, the rhythm and oxymorons of my sentences lending themselves, it seems, more to Shakespeare than to Molière.
My teacher is currently imposing on me the study of the aria In Fernem Land, an archival aria of the Wagnerian opera Lohengrin. There are many interpretations on the Internet, from the honeyed Kaufmann to the imposing Windgassen. It is an tune that can play in the romantic pathos of Germanic or become more human, almost approaching the American musical. It's probably a little like that, I guess, Wagner.