This book contains a messy series of stories, which are joined together by a very thin thread, that I leave the readers to guess, if they want to glimpse it.
There is no temporal unity, there are no autobiographical criteria in common to all the stories, although there are, in some cases, more or less obvious clues.
I like nonsense, it wakes up brain cells.
Fantasy is a necessary ingredient of existence. It's a way of looking at life from the wrong side of a telescope... And this allows you to laugh at all its melancholic realities.
That extraordinary person who was the Italian actor Massimo Troisi once said "There are those who argue that to tell good stories you just have to look around. I don't believe it, because if that were the case, the traffic police would all be Ingmar Bergman."
Just thinking back to these words, I would say that I wanted to write good stories, but I was only able to tell what I saw or what I wanted to see.
The only common feature of these stories is that they are fragments of holidays.