"I am growing superstitious; I seem to feel I am in the cold, dank grotto of a sibyl I cannot see, I seem to feel chills and be awaiting in some magic word the decree of my destiny. Does fate exist, then; is the nightmare real, does the witch exist, and magic and the arcane, the inexorable silence of the temple and the word that kills without reason? Does the invisible sword of destiny exist, hovering over one's head, unjustly, unreasonably, prompting the cynic's sneer, and the curse against life, against providence, against God?"
—Pablo Mantegazza, One Day in Madeira, 1868
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