"... I was not a Penelope waiting for Odysseus weaves the canvas ... I was myself an Odysseus who had always lived by Ulysses and the fact that you had let my true nature becoming a Sancho Panza does not entitle you to certain arrogance ... But when, four days after I saw you in those conditions, my revolt faded ...
But it was not even a love like a disease, it was a cancer! Cancer. Like a cancer that slowly invades the organs with its proliferation of cells, its plasma slimy evil, it grows more and more become aware that no medicine can stop it, no surgery can stop it, perhaps it would be possible when he was a grain Sand, a grain of rice ... now it is not possible because steals every organ, every tissue, eats to the point that you're no longer yourself but a mixing zone with him ... Yet the opportunities to escape he had had a lot ... but I had always rejected, and so the cancer had continued its course to show me that love is to suffer, that the only way not to suffer is not love ... "
(The Man from , By Oriana Fallaci)
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