How beautiful women are! Even now, with my wife sleeping beside me, I cannot help but think of all the women I have had, those I could have had, and those I will never have. I was telling an American friend of mine about my sinful thoughts next to my sleeping wife, and he tells me that I should bring those thoughts to life; that's why they came to me. But he is too American for me; his advice is too practical. He does not understand the power of imagination, the perpetually unfulfilled potency of the platonic, the water that does not flow but whose sound you always have in your ears; in my mind's eye I have jewels that the hand would only tarnish. I could get up now, take the first train to Verona and go meet Martina; I will call her from under the window, like all those times before, I will rush straight to her chest as soon as she opens the door, I will kneel down to smell the sour aroma of her wet panties - but I know, I know that nothing will be like before. Martina is no longer her former self. And for what it's worth, neither am I. The excitement of the first moments will instantly be replaced by the inevitable disappointment of aging bodies, fading passion, all that we mean by love. Better, I say, not to meet Martina anymore, not to inflict pain on either body or soul from the immeasurable ache that the awareness of time gives you and what it takes with it; better to leave her as I have her in mind - a glowing nymph, shining like a moon piercing the clouds, like a sun you see once a year, like a waterfall of pleasures that can't wait to melt over you and you can't wait to dive into. No, better to keep her that way, a secret that simmers next to the warmth of my wife, which takes nothing from her nor gives her anything, since the existence of each is of itself, detached and separate in time and space, which have touched my body and soul in different ways, that have made me what I am today - because let's admit it openly and bluntly, it is always a woman - no! many women, all women! - who make us who we are. I love my wife, and just like Miller, it is impossible for me not to betray her. Because betrayal is what I do. This nightly visit I pay to Martina and the others while she sleeps. The highest that can be done, even. This is because I am doing it in the absence of what would normally be seen as a justification: the body. Martina is not here in bed with me. Neither is Magdalena. Nor Mia. Nor Madame B with her delicious wrinkles. What excites me towards them is their idea, their existence as a concept, as a pure Idea in the Platonic world. They are alive in me regardless of their concrete existence, and as a result, my betrayal is even deeper; purer in its impurity; longer-lasting - in fact it is permanent, eternal. As long as I am alive, they will be with me too. And as long as they are with me, I will cheat with them. Perhaps even simply because they are there, inside me, and I cannot resist them not even for one night, when they come quietly and gently, when they put their heads on my chest and wait until my wife turns to the other side and falls asleep. Then yes! Then they turn off their sweet smiles and pounce on me like monsters, like thirsty ones who don't care if they are drinking water or blood, like a child that devours its mother's breast. And I surrender. I don't put up even the slightest resistance. I don't even pretend I don't want to. I want to. I want them all one by one and all at once. Like a bunch of grapes that you can't wait to eat berry by berry but you raise it in the air and put the whole thing in your mouth. Without washing it. Without cleaning it. You want it like that. Dirty and full of scent. My American friend tells me that I am sick. I must have problems either with my digestion or with the way I see the world. A more pragmatic view of the situation would solve my problem in the blink of an eye. According to him, I suffer from an excess of metaphysics. A sign of an unleashed imagination, which in some cases is valuable, but in others, like mine, very harmful - destructive, even. If the wife, so to speak, no longer accepts me for… - you know - then he could take me somewhere else; he suggested a place that would put even the most infamous harems to shame. I understand my American friend. I really do. Only he doesn't understand me. My wife accepts me every night. We enjoy each other every time like the first time. We still love each other, and I'm afraid we will love each other forever. But what my friend describes as a problem, in fact, is not at all like that. I am not trying to remove it. On the contrary, it keeps me alive; reminds me of who I was before this person I am now, with this concrete wife, this concrete bed and this concrete life. It reminds me of who I was and who I thought I could become, even though I would never become, and let's talk without gloves, nor did I even want to become. But I enjoyed the idea of it. The idea of doing. You understand? The idea. What is born between the ears and behind the eyes in the total solitude of what you are. That intoxicates me. That satisfies me. In its world, I feel at home.