Scorching afternoon... The ventilator fails to fight off the heat. I lie in bed reading Hemingway. That's what I always do when I feel that everything's getting complicated and out of hand. Hemingway puts everything in the right light: life, death, war, peace. I seem to stumble into these four elements everywhere around me. In the street, on the TV screen, at the radio. I feel down because I witnessed a car accident. A really bad one. Two dead, five injured, three cars smashed beyond recognition. I was just walking when it happened. I believe all eye witnessed start their story in the same way: "I was just walking down the street". Thankfully, we are not endowed with the prescience of what is going to happen. Otherwise we would all be guilt ridden: "if only I moved faster... if only I shouted louder". But we are all just walking down the street and the moment comes, the moment that will be stamped into our memories for good: the rush of movement, the screeching tyres, the impact... And the definite line drawn between life and death. Under our own eyes. The quiet disbelief lasts between 5 and 9 seconds. That's what the psychologists say. It takes us about that amount of time to let the images and sounds sink in and then the chain reaction starts. Some faint, some scream. I have a mechanical "Jesus Christ and Holy Mary" coming out of my throat and lips. And then the actions take some definite directions: some pull out the mobile phones and call the police and ambulance. Some brave city knights draw closer to the smashed cars to appreciate who's breathing and who's a goner. Not to help, you understand, but to give them the warm feeling that they knew even before the police and TV stations. Some walk away. Maybe they're already veteran eye witnesses and got quite tired of the spotlight. But most remain on scene. They crane their necks to see what the doctors are doing, what the police are doing. After that, they anxiously look around for a TV crew. If they're lucky enough and have a good story, they'll be on TV at the evening news. About half an hour after the accident, second- and third-hand witnesses rove around. Maybe they saw something with the corner of the eye, but not the whole thing. Maybe they were pushed back and missed the medical and criminalistic procedures. Or maybe they were in their homes and just heard the crash. These are the real pests. "Did you see the stiff? How was he? Bleeding? Disfigured beyond recognition?" What can one say, what can I say? in front of this gross display of morbid curiosity I feel a shiver down the spine. They couldn't care less about the man alive. Now that he's dead, he's turned into some sort of display at the village circus. Crossing themselves and mumbling somethig like "God rest him in peace" for the benefit of my ears and those of the Almighty, but still boiling with curiosity. My throat refuses to produce any sound and my mouth clams up. I walk away under their malicious looks. The darned egoist, refusing to share the treat. I can live with that thought. So I go back home and to Hemingway. I open "A Farewell to Arms" at a well-thumbed page. It is the scene of the Italian soldier's death in the campaign hospital. His last memorable words for the humanity are simply: "How is your name really: Federico Enrico, or Enrico Federico?" That's right, Mr. Hemingway, no one says bright things on their deathbed, but only you had the courage to put it in writing. Imagine the poor driver who died today, his last words might have been: "Dammit, we're gonna be late for the movie!"