Among the many aphorisms collected in this book, there is a calembour that says 'I feel like a flaianeur': it is a sincere homage to the writer Ennio Flaiano, the unsurpassed master of this literary genre, and to the flâneur, the disenchanted and curious observer who contemplates, preferably while walking, what his senses perceive in an often causal way.
And it is perhaps in this way, strolling and moving without a precise destination, that thoughts of various kinds reach the aphorist's pen. Through the mediation of a hospitable mind, which excludes nothing and sniffs out the less visible side of things, he tries, like a diviner, to collect, to catalogue, to give order to a formless material, only to then melancholically resign himself to the lack of a system and an overall design.
If there is a meaning, it lies not in the whole, but between the parts, in that white space that has not yet been filled, in the lines that separate one aphorism from another.
Hence the importance of the said and the unsaid, of the word escaped or barely whispered and that held in silence, of the light and the dark, of the provisional full and the emptiness full of possibilities and fibrillations.
There are few things that cannot be said with an aphorism, but everything that will be said must always have the character of lightness and volatility.
And in the end one is always left with a fistful of pencils.