One evening, returning home, while in the elevator, the author of this book realizes that perhaps can not bear to write an autobiography of his childhood. Then, the day after, he begins to remember. And his memories, move him so much so that, seen from the putside, you might think he will soon start to cry. Because childhood is a strange season of life: the only one that, seen from the distance of many yeas went by, makes you think that even the bad things that happened are good. Childhood is really weird. It is made of strange things and facts. And even the ugly moments are a bit strange, because they are beautiful.
[Text in Italian]