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Yesterday I was sitting in the very back row of a classroom at uni, attending to the presentation of one of my former professors' new book.

One of the introducing speeches was of my Roman history professor, now retired: I consider him my maestro, among the few others I have. His were the first uni lesson I attended to, the first exam, the first real display of historical method and the first insight on subjects that were new to my eyes: he might not remember me precisely (he was already old when I attended and didn’t pay much attentions to new students), but his lessons were definitely the first pull to the disciplines I pursued and studied and in which I’m trying to find my place. But this is not the point I wanted to make.

In his speech he told us an anecdote.
This time of the year last year he was hospitalized and one day a head-nurse or a doctor came to his bed and said:
''They told me you’re a teacher''


''Yes'', he answered a bit ashamed.

''What do you teach?''

''Roman History''

...

...

''And what is that for?''


With this thought in mind, I open my history books.