Alberto Arbasino neverending stories Angkor Vat, YMCA dormitories swallowing Proust
Alberto Arbasino was not friendly. We would cross paths at Dino Franzin’s house in Corso Matteotti in Milan, a meeting place for the cultural elite as every slow set was (and should be). He had a sharp face, even as it got heavier with age, with narrow eyes as mobile as a lady’s fan. The distance he put between himself and others, as well as a product of education, was born out of shyness and reserve, often mistaken for arrogance. His upper class soft R’s matched his art of telling people, politely, to piss off. He could be sweet and paternal. He once picked me up after I fainted and hit my nose on a
