November 3 – Life in Rome is almost back to normal. The police have re-established the usual closing time for the bars, and major raids take place during night-time hours, in the public parks that by now had become the meeting place for lovers. Nine films about the Martian are in preparation, one with the comedian Totò.

November 5 – The Martian has been received by the Pope. The Roman Observer gives news of this, however without publishing photographs, in the column ‘Our Information’. In this column, as it is known, the names of the people to whom the Holy Father granted a private audience are recorded in order of importance. The Martian is among the last, and is so mentioned: Mr Koont from Mars.

November 8 – Today the Martian suddenly agreed to be part of a jury of artists and writers for the crowning of Miss Vie Nuove. When they pointed out to him that the jury was made up of leftist artists and writers, the Martian showed a certain disappointment: but he had already given his word. The evening was marked by a very joyful atmosphere, and the Communists did not conceal their satisfaction for this first victory. The Martian, seated between Carlo Levi and Alberto Moravia, did not say a word. The photographers literally blinded him with their flashes. The competing beauties went unnoticed. Alberto Moravia broke his chair by nervously shifting around.

That evening, I met Carlo Levi with other friends. I joined them to hear his impressions on the Martian. Favourable. The Martian knows about the southern question, certainly not like Levi himself. He’s an intelligent man, even though his upbringing is affected by the flaws of Martian education. All in all, Carlo Levi finds him very likeable, and he’ll go far if he follows Levi’s advice. Levi gave him some books to read, and, among them, Christ Stopped at Eboli, that the Martian was already familiar with in the American edition.

November 19 – I meet Amerigo Bartoli. We talk about the weather. He shows me some red wool socks which he bought in a store downtown at a good price. Then he asks me if I received his postcard. – ‘What postcard?’ – ‘I had sent you a postcard to ask you for a cigarette, did you not receive it?’ He tells me that now, with the cold, he’s forced to go to bed early because he has to get up late in the morning. In the end, he confesses that he’s looking for an idea for a humorous sketch of the Martian. In truth, the topic is a bit passé: everything has been done. Mino Maccari conceived a good sketch, in Il Mondo. It shows some old imperialist Fascists in uniform shouting ‘O Roma o Marte!’ Bartoli wants to do something literary, not political. I advise him to try this drawing: the Martian looks at his little, distant, native planet from the terrace of the Pincio. ‘It’s not funny,’ observes Bartoli. ‘It’s not supposed to be funny –’ I reply – ‘but rather, it’s supposed to move you.’ Bartoli does not answer and we speak of other things. Bartoli will never understand the Martian.