You ever get that feeling where a small mistake starts rolling and suddenly your whole life is upside down? That’s basically the vibe of Seven Floors Dino Buzzati, a short story that feels way too modern for something written in 1937. Honestly, it’s the kind of read that sticks in your brain like a splinter. You think it's a simple medical drama, but then the walls start closing in.
Dino Buzzati, often called the "Italian Kafka," had this weird talent for taking mundane, everyday anxieties and stretching them until they snapped. In "Seven Floors" (or Sette piani if you're feeling fancy), he tackles the one thing we all try to ignore: the slow, inevitable slide toward the end. But he doesn't use monsters or ghosts. He uses paperwork. He uses "temporary" room changes.
He uses the polite, smiling faces of doctors who tell you everything is fine while they move you closer to the basement.
The Descent of Giuseppe Corte
The story follows a guy named Giuseppe Corte. He’s got a "slight fever." Just a little something. Nothing to worry about, right? He checks into this top-tier sanatorium, a beautiful white building that looks more like a luxury hotel than a hospital.
It has seven floors.
The system is simple, almost elegant. The seventh floor is for the healthy people who just need a bit of rest. The "almost-not-sick." As you go down, the cases get worse. The sixth floor is for people with real but manageable issues. The fifth is more serious. By the time you hit the first floor, well... those patients are the "condemned." The windows down there have these heavy metal shutters that stay closed.
It’s a literal hierarchy of mortality.
Corte starts on the seventh floor, looking out at the sun and the trees, feeling great. But then, a nurse asks him to move to the sixth floor. Just for a second! It’s to make room for a mother and her kids. No big deal.
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Except it is.
Once he’s on the sixth, he’s no longer a "visitor." He’s a patient. And the "mistakes" keep happening. A bureaucratic error sends him to the fifth. An eczema flare-up—totally unrelated to his fever, the doctors swear—requires equipment only found on the fourth. Every time he moves down, the excuses get more reasonable and more terrifying.
What Most People Get Wrong About the Story
A lot of readers think this is a story about a man getting sicker. But if you look closely at the text, Giuseppe Corte doesn't actually feel that bad for most of the narrative. In fact, he’s often told his condition is improving.
The horror isn't in his failing organs; it's in the loss of agency.
Buzzati was writing this during the rise of totalitarianism in Europe. He knew exactly what it felt like to be a small human caught in the gears of a massive, unfeeling system. When Corte protests his move to the third floor, the doctors don't scream at him. They don't use force. They use "logic." They use "policy."
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They gaslight him into his own grave.
By the time he reaches the second floor, the view of the trees is gone, replaced by a wall. The light is dimmer. He can hear the cries from the floor below. He’s still convinced it’s all a big misunderstanding—that Professor Dati, the legendary head of the clinic, will show up and fix the paperwork.
But Dati is like a ghost. He’s never there. He’s the "final boss" who doesn't even bother to show up for the fight.
Why "Seven Floors" Is the Ultimate Anxiety Trigger
If you’ve ever dealt with a health insurance company or waited for a "referral" that never comes, this story will hit you like a freight train. Buzzati captures that specific medical dread where you stop being a person with a name and start being a "case."
- The Symbolism of the Shutter: On the seventh floor, the blinds are open. On the first, they are "hermetically sealed." That finality is chilling.
- The Inevitability: We all know how the story ends from page two. That’s the point. You’re watching a car crash in slow motion.
- The Professionalism of Evil: There are no villains here. The nurses are kind. The doctors are polite. They are just "doing their jobs."
It’s the banality of the whole thing that gets you. Corte isn't executed; he’s just reorganized until he doesn't exist anymore.
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The Takeaway for Readers Today
So, what do we do with a story this bleak?
Honestly, "Seven Floors" is a masterclass in atmospheric writing. It teaches us that the scariest things aren't the ones that jump out of the dark. They’re the things that happen in broad daylight, under fluorescent lights, while someone in a white coat tells you not to worry.
If you're looking to dive deeper into the world of Dino Buzzati, don't stop here. His most famous novel, The Tartar Steppe, covers similar ground—the agony of waiting for a life that never quite starts.
To truly appreciate the nuance of Seven Floors Dino Buzzati, read it as a warning about the systems we build. Whether it’s healthcare, government, or just the way we categorize our own lives, there’s always a risk of sliding down.
Next Steps for Literary Fans:
Search for the 1967 film Il fischio al naso (The Whistle in the Nose). It’s an Italian comedy-drama directed by Ugo Tognazzi that’s actually based on this very story. It brings a weird, satirical energy to the descent that makes the ending feel even more surreal. Or, if you're a writer, try mapping out your own "seven floors" of a common anxiety—it’s a great exercise in building tension through repetition.
Don't let the shutters close on your curiosity. Check out Buzzati's other short stories in the collection The Siren to see how he handles themes of time and fate in even weirder ways.