ennio flaiano
I was born in Pescara in 1910 so distant and clean that seems to me another world. My father a trader, I , the last of the seventh children of his second wife, Francesca, an angelic woman who the family affairs was introduced me to too little and late. At five years I was sent to Marche, Camerino, in a family that should have taken care of me. I stayed there for two years. At age of seven, I knew how to sent a telegram. I have done then years of retirement and college in other cities, Fermo, Chieti, Senigallia, even Brescia in 1922. On October 27th of the same year I left for Rome, collegial, in a train full of fascists who were doing "the March". I was twelve years and I was a socialist. In Rome became a bad student and I got with difficulty in the faculty of architecture, without terminating, taken from the military service and the wars to which I was called to participate, without striking a blow. However, Rome is my true city.Sometimes I can hate it, especially since it became the huge garage of the middle class of Italy. But Rome is unknowable, is revealed over time and not at all. It has a great reserves of mystery and still have some oases. In Rome, as a young man, I spent years on the road, at night, with the poet Cardarelli and Guglielmo Santangelo, two masters of indignation and life. In Rome, I met the first writers, the first artists, young people who were doing hunger, women who were doing company. I started writing very late, satire and critical notes, thinking of the narrative. In the winter of '46, finding myself alone in Milan, I wrote my first and only novel. It was the "My Africa", adapted to my shoes, an apologue: Time to kill. The book won a prize, the critics greeted it warmly. One critic wrote that it was expected the second round. Is still waiting. Another one that I was too "readable". The old Italy of the chapters and the "page" rejected me. In '49 Pannunzio called me as an editor of the "World", a column that I held then picked up in volume, Nocturnal Diary, along with other writings. The cinema gave me in those years an economic life less harsh. I worked with Fellini at eight of his films, I've written other stories, for other directors.
Finally, all wasted time, ideas and pages thrown to the wind. In '59 another volume of short stories, and then a comedy, A Martian in Rome, the only thing that I like and that went wrong.[...]