When I was a smoker
The strong bond between smoking and writing and how I broke it
Today I celebrate my seventh year without cigarettes. I started smoking when I was 16. I quit at 50. Thirty-four years: along with my liaison with literature, it was the longest relationship I’ve had in my life. That’s why this is also a commemoration.
I smoked an average of 40 cigarettes a day, or 1200 a month or 14,400 a year: roughly 500,000 cigarettes that beat the time of my life, faithful (even if elusive) companions, witnesses of creative, sad, happy moments, and times of tension or relaxation.
A smoker is born
In the sixties, when I was born, smoking was a widely accepted social behavior. Although smoking-related risks were widely known, nobody — not even doctors — seemed too worried. Smoking was allowed almost everywhere: in cinemas, restaurants, stadiums, trains, airplanes, and even in hospitals.
Fathers-to-be did not even dream of entering the delivery room to support their wives during labor. Instead, they preferred to walk nervously up and down in the waiting room, greedily smoking one cigarette after another, until the nurse came out, showing the crying newborn wrapped in a blanket. At that point, it was time to light a cigar.
