So I came to think; and August 30, Monday, I started my evening classes six girls between fifteen and seventeen. I was hopeful: Sophocles, even with the horrible English translation, is Sophocles, the story retains its ancient power, and if I miss the choirs and I'm coming to central episodes, will be fine. I trusted that they would look this tragedy - not knowing any genre - with the same humble curiosity with which we look at a catalog of curses St. Joachim, and if you were bored, at least their boredom was not due injury that here accompany every book written after the eighties. I was convinced that they have read the text, explaining then the words that they knew, would have involved more.
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