The scene is, any subterranean bookshop in the center of Milan (there's a bunch of them, they're all sad and stinking). The main character is ico, me.

I approach the scaffolds of poetry. I try to focus the titles quickly.
I don't like the first authors I read of, nor the titles. My mind struggles to convince me not to indulge in any time-consuming irrational negative feeling towards these poets. Just pass, corpodib, please.

Then, in a sudden rush of sympathy and enthusiasm, among books with titles such as "Plural word" "Air of the memory" "Inspections", I spot one little colorful book, entitled "Il fanculo mistico" (The mystical Fuck Off).

Oh! pleasant congenial brave author, who are you?

I read: Giovanni Pascoli. This can't be. One of the most trite moral authors of the many trite ones they teach you at school. That's impossible. He comes from the Italian XIX° Century Literature where Fucking Off was definitely out of the question.

And so it is, as the actual title recites "Il fanciullo musico" (The musical infant).

Oh boredom! swallow me in your cavernous gloomy mouth! Step on my crumbled bones and sink me in your voracious mud!

I leave the scene frowning. End of story; then comes the moral.

Dyslexia is a brief blessing. It betters the world, but it comes and goes as a wild animal in the woods.