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The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity
(read somewhere)

"We look on past ages with condescension,
as mere preparation for us... but what
if we're only an after-glow of them?"
The Siege of Krishnapur
J.G. Farrell

We go on doing reserach and thinking about all sorts of problems, as if we could one day reach the thought that would set us free Gregory Bateson>/I>

I took a speed-reading course and read War and Peace in twenty minutes. It involves Russia.
Woody Allen

The human habit of overestimating other people's happiness is nothing new, of course. Here a quote by Montesquieu: "If we only wanted to be happy it would be easy; but we want to be happier than other people, which is almost always difficult, since we think them happier than they are."

Acerca de Mim
the dog is not mine, I found it surfing the web, he looked so at a loss that I adopted him, since then we've been getting on quite well

Who am I? That is a simple question, yet it is one without a simple answer. I am many things—and I am one thing. But I am not a thing that is just lying around somewhere, like a pen, or a toaster, or a housewife. That is for sure. I am much more than that. I am a living, breathing thing, a thing that can draw with a pen and toast with a toaster and chat with a housewife, who is sitting on a couch eating toast. And still, I am much more.
I am a man.
And I am a former baby and a future skeleton, and I am a distant future pile of dust.
(by Demetri Martin - on The Newyorker)

I know is a very long shot, like searching a needle in a haystack.
but will you spread my quest?
When my father was a teenager , just after second world war, a girl came to live in the same little town where he used to live, Savignone near Genoa. But a few years later, the girl’s family moved to New York City.
Years and years later 1969/1970 out of blue this girl with her husband and two sons knocked on our door. At that time we used to live in Busalla (also near Genoa), but unfortunatley as soon as they hit our door a bad news came. A relative of them died in the U.S.A., so they catched the first plane to come back home; but there wasn’t place for them all, so they left their youngest son with us for more or less fifteen days, then my parents put him on a plane direct, of course , to New York
I only remember his name, was Victor, and his age 13/14 years old, the last name is an easter last name because they move out from Istria, when it became , after II World War, part of Yugoslavia, and his mother was a dressmaker/seamstress.
Anyway, that’s my story, just a bottle thrown in the ocean
Genoa (Italy)
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