The Unidentifiable Beauty

I really can’t remember anything about the days my mother was pushing me around the village in a stroller. From what I’ve been told I must have been an inquisitive child, wondering about almost anything I saw for the first time. I do remember the punishment I got at the age of 4, when I took some wooden blocks home from nursery school, to saw them in half because they wouldn’t fit in the castle I was building. It didn’t get any better when I took our little organ apart just because I was curious how it worked, although I had some fun with the one-meter long “mouth harps” that came out of it. As soon as I went to primary school, learned how to read and write, she, my mother, bought a (too) expensive encyclopedia and referred to the big books whenever a question came up. My parents weren’t highly educated, didn’t waste time, didn’t have time to read literature. They were just hard-working middle-class people, both having a job next to a little antique shop. Next, to the 26 books of knowl...