Monica Sarsini, p.3
The Losanga has neither hands nor feet; it has two insignificant legs overshadowed by its mouth, which is enormous. It plays the part of the bully otherwise it would be impossible since its mouth takes offence as ours breathes, smiles or greets. Whether or not it appears bad is, however, not clarified. Indeed, it strikes such fear that no one has the courage to verify if, beyond its teeth, this furious cavity also contains cordial offers.
It’s trite to be afraid of it: its menacing air is so clear that it should, in fact, be simple to understand that you can be serenely confident. It’s certainly not what it appears, but rather the caricature of a childish nightmare from which it didn’t escape in growing up. It’s well-known, however, that its contemporaries all have a tendency toward laziness, and lacking in heroism, they prefer to cling to what’s manifested on surfaces, without investigating, at least for curiosity’s sake, how things actually are under what’s, most of the time, only an odious mask for the one who wears it. It’s the fault of mothers who raise little ones to be on guard, to distance themselves from novelty. Mightn’t that venomous grin be, for example, the result of a hereditary anger, the state of soul of one of its ancestors who has nothing to do with the bearer, like mountains the snow, and men, the fear of death?
It lives among red, yellow and black, among lighted torches, on the hoods of friars, on the whetstone of knife-grinders, in the screech of skates on ice, in betrayals and expectations, but, frequently, it migrates so some see it in the word “Yes,” and others, in uncertainty. Those who see many of them get used to them and begin, even if it’s not of their species, to gnash their teeth while sleeping and to seldom bat an eye. Instead, those who live far away from its favorite places, meeting it sporadically, remain terrified each time and comfort themselves in food and warmth, instruments often suited for dispelling the memory of unpleasant things.
Almost all of the losanghe are female; the males can’t manage so much fury in representing hostility and rancor. It seems strange, but it eats fruit-salad.