eBook The Art of Life. English

With my most important goals empty, I travel in the peace of a summer day, at last. Everything has its moment, yes, and there is nothing more ungrateful than to twist the serene nature of time, to be a syncopation in the backwater, or a lively wave on the calm surface of a lake.
When our time does not belong to us, when we cede its use to others, we walk with our feet out of joint, our soul exhausted and our heart cramped. Once the hurricane winds have passed, we contemplate the devastation with weariness... sometimes with weariness and always with relief at having survived.
In the cycles of becoming, nature imposes itself, and in the small space it leaves us, we propose what we believe to be best. The heat of summer is not suited to hectic marathons, life-and-death gambles, or apocalyptic intensities, but rather to peaceful relaxation and calm contemplation on the banks of a cool river.
We all make mistakes; life is a continuous series of mistakes and successes, but by doing so according to our own rules, we give fewer opportunities and arguments to the ugly vice of blaming others, those who were simply passing by at that moment.
Managing our time is imperative for moving forward smoothly, without setbacks or anxiety; in the end, life, made up of moments, reveals its secrets to us in calm and reflection, much more than under the harassment of spurious pressures.
In the gentle swirl of smoke, the wise discover more arcane truths than in the heat of a rushed battle, because the bad thing about a rat race is that even if you win, you're still a rat...
When models are foreign to us, we will never be satisfied, because embracing our nature is the first step to existing in a healthy and beautiful way; thus, the greatest demonstration of wisdom is to radiate unceasing happiness.
Grace and dignity cannot be feigned, just as art cannot be prefabricated with formulas or techniques.
It is the phlogiston of the soul that moves the viewer before a painting, a poem, or a piece of music. To try to do so with technical subterfuges is typical of those who, admiring the sublime nature of creation, want to imitate it without feeling... with the empty spirit of a robot, you cannot move anyone.
All art arises from a disturbance of the soul, which, troubled by the vicissitudes of existence, breaks and decomposes the figure, only to rebuild itself through the healing balm of creation; a toast to the sun by those who, in the end, and by whatever means they choose, do nothing but cry out to Caesar, "morituri te salutant."
Art and life, life with art, go hand in hand when the heart is the path and the path has heart. We go through the stages, we attend to the immediate, the urgent, but because of this we cannot forget the important, the essential. Existence, life, are primarily sustained by themselves; all justification comes later, an incessant murmur filtered through our clumsy minds, which were structured from our experiences, always small, always limited. If we do not live, what will we say to ourselves in our last breath?
eBook in PDF Format. English language​​​​​​​