In my letters I left my life behind: thoughts born in travels, memories that suddenly resurfaced, questions that were unanswered. Each page is a fragment of me, a way to stop time as everything, all around, changed.
Of all those to whom I wrote, no one could understand me like Pietro Zaguri. With him, no shrewdness or masks were needed: I confided in him thoughts that I would not have entrusted to anyone else, reflections, fears that I kept silent even to myself, judgments that only he knew how to understand without misunderstanding.
His ability to listen, calm and watchful, gave my words a safe space.
Between the lines of my letters, between mistakes made, lost affections and hidden hopes you will find a man, not a myth.
I write to defend my memory from silence, and I recount my time, its grandeur and its twilight, so that my voice will not be lost in the wind.
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