I never imagined, nor did I ever wish, to write an autobiographical book. S/he is a liar, however, if s/he says “never” or “always” about her/himself, the creature s/he knows the least about. For events always come about that transform and change us.
In my case, it was my granddaughter and everything else that followed her arrival. The same month that she was born, while wandering about ecstatic and delirious, I found myself in front of my computer planted there as if by an unknown desire. One of confession? To note down things in case they were forgotten? Or like a song which needs to be sung, since inside us there are melodies that make decisions for us…
Yet I had to deal with her parents! A couple who was more serious, more cautious, more responsible and more modest than myself. During a happy moment - yes, happiness makes you braver - I announced it to them. “Will you also be writing about us?” asked my son. “It would be difficult not to… I couldn’t really write about the one without the other!” I said nervously.
They weren’t very pleased. So I promised them, with a passion, that they would read it before I submitted it for publication. That I’d remove anything they didn’t want to said and, if necessary, I’d even desist from publishing it at all...
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