DARINA SILONE
85
my mother in the earthquake was traumatic, but it had been caused
by a natural catastrophe. My brother's imprisonment and death
have never ceased to torture me because but for me they would
never have happened. That's why I've spoken so little about
Romolo. It's not the kind of grief that's easy to communicate ."
"I know."
"Finally I decided to write something about Romolo, to try to
establish the truth and to leave some record of his sacrifice. But the
task was so painful for me that I kept postponing it. I thought I'd do
it after finishing
Celestino.
But after
Celestino
I could never tackle
another book. What was wrong I didn't know. They told me I had
arteriosclerosis of the brain and must resign myself to it. Yet I still
had five or six books in my head to write. Now I know it was the un–
diagnosed kidney disease and the brain-poisoning that it caused. So
many years lost! I feel I could write them now. But in case I don't
survive, will you write them for me?"
"I write your books!" I exclaimed . "How could
I?"
"You could . I am not talking about novels but about documents.
I had been preparing them for years, collecting material. I'm anx–
ious that certain facts, certain experiences should not go unrecorded .
You must set them down, if I am not able to do it. Promise me?"
"I promise to try, but it won't be necessary because you will
write them yourself," I said, to escape from this melancholy discus–
sion, although I wished he could have told me more.
"And then - this is important - you must retrieve a whole mass
of material: manuscripts and typescripts, some never published in
Italian, first editions long out of print, different versions of certain
novels, books, articles, and so forth, all of which I lent someone,
over a period of years, forgetting to ask for them back. You know the
state I had got into, letting things slide. It's all a vital part of my ar–
chive, the one thing I have to bequeath to posterity: the raw material
of a writer's work."
"Of course," I said, "I'll see to it ." (A fruitless attempt, it proved
to be.) But my thoughts were elsewhere.
The doctor had told me the truth. The operation they at first
considered possible would now involve too great a risk. So the pa–
tient could never return to Rome; he would always have to remain
in the clinic and follow his daily therapy. On that condition, he
might perhaps still live for several years. Many writers had had to
spend their last years in clinics or sanatoria, continuing to write. It
