"One doesn't come to Italy for niceness," was the retort; "one comes for life. Buon giorno! Buon giorno!" - E. M. Forster

One doesn't come to Italy for niceness, one comes for life!

Cannot you see, cannot all you lecturers see, that it is we that are dying, and that down here the only thing that really lives is the Machine? We created the Machine, to do our will, but we cannot make it do our will now. It has robbed us of the sense of space and of the sense of touch, it has blurred every human relation and narrowed down love to a carnal act, it has paralyzed our bodies and our wills, and now it compels us to worship it. The Machine develops - but not on our lies. The Machine proceeds - but not to our goal. We only exist as the blood corpuscles that course through its arteries, and if it could work without us, it would let us die.

Adventures do occur, but not punctually.

If you introduce the human figure you at once arouse either disgust or desire.