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There, it’s finished: it musn’t be touched again.
How heavy is the pen in my hand!
It was so light a moment ago,
like a seer who guides a blind man,
like a lady who guides you in the dance.
That’s enough, the work is finished
polished, rounded off.
If you took only one word away
you would leave behind a hole oozing serum.
If you added another one
it would stick out like an ugly wart.
If you changed only one, it would clash
like a dog barking at a concert.
Now what is there to be done?
How can you get away from it?
You die a little, each time you finish a work of art.

15th January 1983_by_Primo Levi