Benito Mussolini hates death. He wants perpetual strength for his own body, for his loved ones, for his Italy. Withering and dying hurt him.
After his Brother Arnaldo died, he wrote: "For his death I have sorrowed and shall sorrow for long; like the mutilations of the body, those of the soul are irreparable." One morning last week Benito Mussolini, whose soul has lately been scarred almost beyond recognition, was at his desk in Rome. A few minutes after 10 o'clock, the telephone rang. San Giusto Airport, Pisa. An accident. Three killed, five injured. And one of the dead was...
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