One hundred years ago Henrik Ibsen was taken by Wilhelm Bergsoe to Punta Imperatore, on my home Island of Ischia. On the steep, winding climb up Ibsen became paralyzed with terror. He said the cliff would collapse at any moment, and they’d be killed. Bergsoe laughed.
“We are in proportion to the cliff as a fly to a tower,” he said.
“But even a fly can bring down a tower if it were on the point of collapse,” Ibsen shot back.
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