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One, No One and One Hundred Thousand

By Luigi Pirandello. What are you doing? Nothing, I told her. I am just having a look here, in my nose, in this nostril.

It hurts me a little, when I take hold of it. I thought, she said, that you were looking to see which side it is hangs down the lower. Why, yes, dear, and my wife was serene, take a good look; the right side is a little lower than the other. I was twenty-eight years old; and up to now, I had always looked upon my nose as being, if not altogether handsome, at least a very respectable sort of nose, as might have been said of all the other parts of my person.

And yet, the unforeseen, unexpected discovery of this particular defect angered me like an undeserved punishment. It may be that my wife saw through this anger of mine; for she quickly added that, if I was under the firm and comforting impression of being wholly without blemishes, it was one of which I might rid myself; since, just as my nose sagged to the right—.

Yes, there was something else! Something else! Ah, yes, more: my hands, the little finger; and my legs no! Following an attentive examination, I had to admit that all these defects existed. It was only then, when the feeling of astonishment that succeeded my anger had definitely changed to one of grief and humiliation—it was only then that my wife strove to console me, urging me not to take it so to heart, since with all my faults, when all was said, I was still a handsome fellow.

I made the best of it, accepting as a generous concession what had been denied me as a right. I let out a most venomous thanks, and, safe in the assurance that I had no cause for either grief or humiliation, proceeded to attribute not the slightest importance to these trifling defects; but I did confer a very great and extraordinary importance upon the fact that I had gone on living all these years without ever once having changed noses, keeping the same one all the time, and with the same eyebrows and the same ears, the same hands and the same legs—and to think that I had had to take a wife, to realize that they were not all that they should be.

Small wonder in that! Not exactly that, I would have you know. Some allowance is to be made for the state of mind I was in. My father, by fair means or other, had not succeeded in doing anything with me, beyond seeing that I married at a very early age, possibly with the hope that I would at least provide a son who would be not at all like me; but the poor man had not been able to get even this out of me.

It was not, understand, that I opposed any will of my own to taking the path upon which my father wished to embark me. I took them all. But taking them was all I did; I did not do any walking to speak of, but would come to a halt at every step, at every smallest stone I encountered, to hover about it, first at a distance and then closer up; and I wondered no little how others could go on past me, without taking any account whatever of that stone, which for me meanwhile had come to assume the proportions of an insurmountable mountain, as well as those of a world in which, without any further ado, I might have made myself at home.

I had remained halting like this at the first steps I had taken along so many paths, my mind full of worlds, or of little rocks, which amounts to the same thing.

As a matter of fact, it did not seem to me that those who had passed me, and who had gone all the way, were substantially any the wiser than I. They had passed me, there was no doubt about that, prancing like colts; but at the end of the road, what they had found was a cart, their own cart; they had harnessed themselves to it with a vast deal of patience, and were now engaged in drawing it after them.

But I drew no cart, and bore, accordingly, neither bridle nor blinders; I could certainly see farther than they; but go—where was there to go? Coming back now to the discovery of those slight defects, I was immersed all of a sudden in the reflection that it meant—could it be possible?

And turning to look at myself once more, I examined them again. It was from there that my sickness started, that sickness which would speedily have rendered me so wretched and despairing of body and of mind that I should certainly have died of it or gone mad, had I not found in my malady itself the remedy I may say which was to cure me of it.

I at once imagined that everybody, now that my wife had made the discovery, must be aware of those same bodily defects, and that they must see nothing else in me. Is it my nose you are staring at? I suddenly asked a friend, that very day, who had stopped to speak to me of some matter or other that meant a great deal to him.

And I insisted upon his pausing to observe it attentively, as if that defect in my nose were an irreparable hitch that had occurred in the mechanism of the universe. My friend surveyed me at first in some astonishment; he surely suspected that my reason for thus, suddenly and without rhyme or reason, dragging in that remark about my nose, was that I did not deem the business of which he had been speaking to me worth my attention or a reply, for he gave a shrug of the shoulders and started to leave me, unceremoniously.

I caught him by the arm. No, no, I said, I am very much interested in your proposition. But you will have to excuse me for the moment. I never noticed before that it sagged to the right. My wife called my attention to it this morning. His tone was questioning, and there was an incredulous and even derisive smile in his eyes.

I stood there gazing at him, as I had gazed at my wife that morning, with a mixture, that is to say, of humiliation, of anger and of astonishment. So he, too, had noticed it, had he? And how many others! How many? Yet I had been unaware of it, and, being unaware, had gone on believing that I was to everybody a Moscarda with a straight nose, whereas the truth was, everyone saw me as a Moscarda with a crooked nose.

It is true, I might have consoled myself with the reflection that, in the long run, my case was obviously common enough, all of which only goes to prove once again a well-known fact, namely, that we are ready enough to note the faults of others, while all the time unconscious of our own.

The first germs of the malady had, however, begun to take root in my mind; and this reflection was unable to bring me any consolation. The thought, rather, remained firmly planted, that I was not for others what up to then I had inwardly pictured myself as being. For the moment, I was thinking only of my body; and as my friend still stood there in front of me, with that derisive and incredulous air, I asked him, by way of retaliation, if he, for his part, knew that he had a dimple in his chin, which divided it into two not wholly equal parts, one of which stood out more than the other.

No doubt, he was right: it was a trifling matter; but following him at a distance, I saw him stop first at one shop window and then at another, further down the street; and then, yet further down, he came to a stop for a third time, before a shop-front mirror, to have a look at his chin; and I am quite sure that, the moment he reached his house, he must have run to the clothes press in order more conveniently to become acquainted with his new and blemished self. At the end of a week, moreover, a certain acquaintance accosted me; he appeared to be perplexed, and asked me if it was true that, every time he went to speak, he inadvertently contracted his left eyebrow.

Yes, old man, I hastened to assure him. Look at me, will you? My nose sags to the right; but I know it without your telling me. And my circumflex eyebrows!

And my ears—look here—one of them stands out more than the other. And the crooked joint on this little finger. And my legs—here, look at this one, this one here—does it look to you the same as the other one? But I know it without your telling me. See you later. Excuse me, he inquired, but your mother did not bear any other sons after you, did she?

Because, he said, if your mother had given birth another time, it would surely have been a male. Listen, and I will tell you. The women of the people have a saying that, when the hair on the back of the neck ends in a little bobtail like the one you have, the next born will be a boy. Ah, I said, coldly and with the beginning of a sneer, so I have a—what do you call it? From that day on, I longed most ardently to be alone, if only for an hour. It was really more than a longing; it was a need, a sharp and pressing, a restless need, which was aggravated to the point of fury by the presence or proximity of my wife.

He said he would be back later. Good Lord, what a bore! The only place where I could shut myself in was my study; and even here, T did not dare put the bolt on the door, from fear of arousing unpleasant suspicions in my wife, who was, I shall not say an unpleasant woman, but a highly suspicious one. And supposing that, opening the door suddenly, she had discovered me? No, it would not do. And anyway, it would have been useless. There were no mirrors in my study. I had need of a mirror.

A charming little window opens for you in memory, at which, smilingly, between a vase of pinks and one of jasmine, you catch sight of Titti, knitting away at a red woolen muffler, good Lord, like the one which that impossible old Signor Giacomino wears about his neck, for whom you have not yet written that letter of introduction to the president of the Association of Charities, your good friend but another terrible bore, especially when he starts talking about the fraudulent conduct of his private secretary, the one who yesterday—no, when was it?

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Length: pages 3 hours. Luigi Pirandello's extraordinary final novel begins when Vitangelo Moscarda's wife remarks that Vitangelo's nose tilts to the right. This commonplace interaction spurs the novel's unemployed, wealthy narrator to examine himself, the way he perceives others, and the ways that others perceive him. At first he only notices small differences in how he sees himself and how others do; but his self-examination quickly becomes relentless, dizzying, leading to often darkly comic results as Vitangelo decides that he must demolish that version of himself that others see.

About the Author: Luigi Pirandello was an Italian novelist, short- story writer, and playwright. His best-known works include the novel 'The Late Mattia Pascal', in which the narrator one day discovers that he has been declared dead, as well as the groundbreaking plays Six Characters in Search of an Author and Henry IV, which prefigured the Theater of the Absurd.

He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in William Weaver was a renowned translator who brought some of the most interesting Italian works into English.

An expert on opera, Weaver lived for many years in a farmhouse in Tuscany and later became a professor of literature at Bard College. Literary Fiction.

One, No One and One Hundred Thousan‪d‬

By Luigi Pirandello. What are you doing? Nothing, I told her. I am just having a look here, in my nose, in this nostril. It hurts me a little, when I take hold of it. I thought, she said, that you were looking to see which side it is hangs down the lower. Why, yes, dear, and my wife was serene, take a good look; the right side is a little lower than the other.

To browse Academia. Skip to main content. By using our site, you agree to our collection of information through the use of cookies. To learn more, view our Privacy Policy. Log In Sign Up. Download Free PDF. Van Godtsenhoven.

The central theme is that in each individual there are multiple personalities, since one's perception of one's self differs from the view of others. As a consequence, a unique identity does not exist, but rather one hundred thousand. This concept can be very well applied to the kinetochore, one of the largest macromolecular complexes conserved in eukaryotes. The kinetochore is essential during cell division and fulfills different sophisticated functions, including linking chromosomes to spindle microtubules and delaying anaphase onset in case of incorrect bi-orientation. In order to perform these tasks, the kinetochore shapes its structure by recruiting different subunits, such as the components of the spindle assembly checkpoint SAC or the monopolin complex during meiosis.


LUIGI PIRANDELLO. ONE, NO ONE, AND ONE. HUNDRED THOUSAND. TRANSLATED AND WITH AN INTRODUCTION. BY WILLIAM WEAVER.


"Uno, nessuno e centomila": the different faces of the budding yeast kinetochore

It hurts me a little, when I take hold of it. I was twenty-eight years old; and up to now, I had always looked upon my nose as being, if not altogether handsome, at least a very respectable sort of nose, as might have been said of all the other parts of my person. So far as that was concerned, I had been ready to admit and maintain a point that is customarily admitted and maintained by all those who have not had the misfortune to bring a deformed body into the world, namely, that it is silly to indulge in any vanity over one's personal lineaments. And yet, the unforeseen, unexpected discovery of this particular defect angered me like an undeserved punishment.

Skip to search form Skip to main content You are currently offline. Some features of the site may not work correctly. DOI: Published in , it recounts the tragedy of Vitangelo Moscarda, a man who struggles to reclaim a coherent and unitary identity for himself in the face of an inherently social and multi-faceted world.

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Лицо коммандера выражало торжественную серьезность. Видимо, в его действиях было нечто такое, что ей знать не полагалось. Сьюзан опустилась на стул. Повисла пауза. Стратмор поднял глаза вверх, собираясь с мыслями.

Если я ошиблась, то немедленно ухожу, а ты можешь хоть с головы до ног обмазать вареньем свою Кармен Хуэрту.  - Мидж зло посмотрела на него и протянула руку.  - Давай ключ. Я жду. Бринкерхофф застонал, сожалея, что попросил ее проверить отчет шифровалки. Он опустил глаза и посмотрел на ее протянутую руку. - Речь идет о засекреченной информации, хранящейся в личном помещении директора.

One, No One and One Hundred Thousand

 - Парень хмыкнул.  - Меган все пыталась его кому-нибудь сплавить. - Она хотела его продать.

Смит был прав. Между деревьев в левой части кадра что-то сверкнуло, и в то же мгновение Танкадо схватился за грудь и потерял равновесие. Камера, подрагивая, словно наехала на него, и кадр не сразу оказался в фокусе.

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The novel had a rather long and difficult period of gestation.

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