However, I must give myself credit for a little sense on one occasion, at least. And it was a serious occasion, too-a crisis in my life-a crisis when I stood watching my dreams and my plans for the future and the work of years vanish into thin air. It happened like this. In my early thirties, I had decided to spend my life writing novels. I was
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“Winning isn’t about a Championship title anymore. It’s about making me proud, no matter the outcome. Other people’s praise is only an added bonus now. Because in the end, I spent way too many lost years focusing on the opinions of people who didn’t matter.”
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The bishop of Rome was called a papa. The word meant “grand old man.” The word “pope” comes from this courtesy title. But a papa of the fifth century was in no way a “pope” as modern persons know him, as the undisputed head of a worldwide Roman Catholic Church. The title papa, “pope,” was used of any senior bishop.
In April 1956, the first issue of Tempo Presente appeared in Italy. Edited by Ignazio Silone and Nicola Chiaromonte, it was the first serious challenge to Nuovi Argomenti, a journal founded in 1954 by Alberto Moravia which closely resembled Sartre’s Les Temps modernes. Tempo Presente took the resemblance one step further, its title a deliberate echo of Sartre’s. Cynics would later argue that this amounted to intellectual theft, and illustrated claims that one major CIA strategy was to create or support ‘parallel’ organizations which provided an alternative to radicalism over which they had no control. Certainly, Tempo Presente ‘opened its pages to many defectors from the Italian Communist Party in the late 1950s’, including the writers Italo Calvino, Vasco Pratolini and Libero de Libero. Its pages were also open to dissident writers from the eastern bloc who, together with the regular stable of Congress contributors, kept up a sustained attack on the vagaries of Communist totalitarianism.
The New Press - 2000
The Invisible Life Of Addie LaRue
The shop girls are right. There is no author’s name. No photo on the back.
No sign of Henry Strauss, beyond the simple, beautiful fact that the book is in her hands, the story real.
She peels back the cover, turns past the title to the dedication.
Three small words rest in the center of the page.
I remember you.
