Further south than this, it is impossible. I come over Noto, over Avola. I come to Pachino, a town full of life, full of beautiful people. I do not stop there, I go further south, to Capo Passero, a tongue of a yellow field with a white lighthouse and a forest of prickly pears around, over the rows of crumbling little walls. I do not stop still: I go further down, to Porto Palo, which is a miserable village, crouched behind that tongue of land, with rows of red houses, and the water of the rocks that run in small gullies perpendicular to the road. The people are all out, and it is the most beautiful people of Italy, pure race, elegant, strong, sweet. And I do not stop yet: I arrive at the port of Porto Palo, where the road ends up against a wall along the sea: on the left under a yellow ridge a dozen boats, a small beach crowned by prickly pears, monuments. And I do not stop yet. There is a small island in front of it, all sand and figs of India, with a baroque tower. I ask one of the young men who, as always, are sitting on the wall: “Can you take me to that island? What’s his name?” “Isola di Porto Palo!” He makes me disconcerted, because perhaps for him the island does not have a name. He descends towards the boat, and rowing slowly through the small arm of the sea, made blue and pink by the dying light. We disembark on the islet, under the tower, and, already almost in the tender shade, smelling of the night, I bathe in the poorest and most distant beach in Italy.
Pier Paolo Pasolini – The long sandy road – Edizioni Contrasto.