Time & Perspective Quote by Luigi Pirandello

It reads like a love letter that knows it might be a performance. Pirandello, the great anatomist of masks and self-invention, stages intimacy here as both ache and ambition: the desire to write "all my time" to one person is less romantic excess than a bid for total access, a fantasy of being fully seen and finally unedited. The piling clauses ("all that... all that... all that...") create a breathless pressure, as if feeling were a kind of backlog that only confession can clear.

The subtext is more complicated than devotion. Writing becomes a substitute for presence and a form of control: on the page, the speaker can curate the self, decide the rhythm of disclosure, and turn raw inwardness into something legible. "All that gives air to my soul" is telling; the beloved isn't just a recipient but an oxygen supply, a witness whose attention keeps the inner life from suffocating. That dependency is tender, and faintly alarming.

Then Pirandello pivots to "phantoms of art" and "dreams" that are "so beautiful if they could come true", admitting what his theatre keeps exposing: our grand interior narratives are often projections. Art is described as haunting rather than solid, dreams as conditional rather than promised. In context, from a writer obsessed with fractured identity and the gap between lived truth and narrated truth, the line lands as a confession of craft. He isn't only courting a person; he's courting the possibility that language could finally make a private world real.