There were three of us, too, but not so young—in our twenties.
One was Antonio, and I wouldn’t want to say much about him,
nor would I know how to. He was a fine, handsome youth, smart,
sensitive, tenacious, and bold, but with something in him that
was elusive, dark, wild. We were at that age when you have the
need and the instinct and the immodesty to inflict on others
everything that is seething in your head and elsewhere; it’s an
age that can last a long time, but ends at the first compromise.
Yet with him, even at that age, nothing had slipped out of his
wrapping of restraint; nothing escaped from his inner world—though we sensed it to be rich and dense—except some rare allusion dramatically cut short. He was like a cat, if I may put it this way, whom you live with for years but who never allows you to get under his sacred skin.
One was Antonio, and I wouldn’t want to say much about him,
nor would I know how to. He was a fine, handsome youth, smart,
sensitive, tenacious, and bold, but with something in him that
was elusive, dark, wild. We were at that age when you have the
need and the instinct and the immodesty to inflict on others
everything that is seething in your head and elsewhere; it’s an
age that can last a long time, but ends at the first compromise.
Yet with him, even at that age, nothing had slipped out of his
wrapping of restraint; nothing escaped from his inner world—though we sensed it to be rich and dense—except some rare allusion dramatically cut short. He was like a cat, if I may put it this way, whom you live with for years but who never allows you to get under his sacred skin.
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