November 20 – As of today the Martian has received around two hundred thousand letters. A team of secretaries is at work reading them. They are, for the most part, from misunderstood inventors, dissatisfied women, good children. In a letter, postmarked from Catania, they found a single word: cuckold. But letters also arrive in which the Martian is asked to act, soon, and he’s reproached for wasting precious time. Disappointment is already rife. Mario Soldati, whom I met today in a bookstore, whispered in my ear: ‘Treason!’ And he went away, bent forward under the weight of his thoughts, like a conspirator pondering his resignation.

November 27 – The scene which took place the other night at the Cisterna, in Trastevere, between the drunk Martian and a popular film actor disgusted me. It seems that the actor insisted on the Martian agreeing to eat some spaghetti at his table. Naturally the paparazzi did not miss this chance to photograph the Martian wolfing down spaghetti, hand fed by the actor. The afternoon papers publish the photographs. The meaning of the vulgar comments is this: the Martian appreciates Roman cuisine very much, and is happy to be living in Rome, where life is undoubtedly better than in every other city on the planet.

November 28 – I stop by the offices of Il Mondo to say hello to my friends. The photographer arrives with the package full of new stuff. They reprimand him because he brings many photographs of the Martian. It seems that Pannunzio has decided to no longer publish photographs of the Martian. Enough!

December 2 – F. calls me to invite me to a cocktail party he’s throwing today in honour of the Martian. I respond, imitating the voice of the maid, saying that I’m not home. Meeting the Martian seems useless to me, among people who want to get their hands on him, some to tell him how things really are in Italy, some to invite him to another cocktail party, some to involve him in a literary prize.

December 6 – Finally I saw the Martian. It was last night, at 2 a.m., Pierino Accolti-Gil and I were quietly smoking when we saw him coming, in the company of two girls, tall, leggy, maybe two chorus-girls. He was laughing and speaking in English. He quit laughing when he passed by, even though we were purposefully not watching him. Near the news stands in Via Lombardia the Martian ran into the ex-King Faruk, who was walking slowly, bored. They did not greet each other. The ex-King Faruk was looking for some cigarettes, and he gestured at the old man who was there selling them. ‘Here you are!’ answered the old man, running towards his client.

We later passed by two prostitutes who were muttering. One was saying: ‘Will you go with the Martian? Come on, already!’ The other appeared nervous and put out: ‘Not me. You go with him. I’m not going with the Martian.’ I did not understand if her refusal was due to a fear of the unknown, or only misguided nationalism.