Written by the Nobel-prize-winning novelist and playwright, this was the first Italian novel I’ve read, a soliloquy full of wit and humour. The plot is surprisingly simple: the protagonist’s wife comments in passing on his imperfect nose, from which his life begins to unravel downhill. The dialogue is consistent but not the easiest to read. Lines run on (sometimes with gibberish) and border on rants. But it’s also made the perspective intimate, almost invading your own privacy.

I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty self-conscious person; I see most things around me and am very sensitive to how others react. For one, I know the 2 sides of my face and body are asymmetrical (as for most people), yet I still constantly feel alarmed at how unflattering I look in photos vs mirrors and can’t help wondering if that is how others see me differently. I know my voice sounds different, too; how I hear it in my head is different from how I sound on replays. This is why it takes great courage to watch myself on video conferences or performance recordings, something I avoid doing altogether where possible.

Have you ever caught sight of yourself in the mirror you did not recognise? Or be alarmed by some sudden movement out of the corner of your eye and later realise it’s only your own reflection? It’s as if a version of yourself has gone rogue and has to be put in its place, like how Peter Pan’s shadow has to be sewn on.

Ultimately it draws us to the matter of identity crisis: if we are not who we are to others as we are to ourselves, are we really what we think of ourselves, and would we be compelled to prove them otherwise? And at what cost? There’s hardly a right or wrong to the questions, but they are worth pondering. Unfortunately, we’ve become so caught up in appearances, physically and metaphorically, that we keep trying to project our egotistical selves onto others and flinch when we realise it doesn’t always work. Regrettably, this little blog's existence may be proof of my undoing…

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