Any interest that is philosophical towards autobiography can originally be compared to that same curiosity that catches us - as Virginia Woolf said - when "we stop in front of a house with the lights on and the shutters open". A situation that is certainly familiar to many and which represents nothing more than the moment when a small crack opens in that feeling of omniscience that envelops our absent-minded daily life, absorbed up to the last moment by its routine. It is a context that undoubtedly makes us sure of ourselves, but at the same time chains us and precludes us from any further possibility of thought and action. In fact, from that small crack a light is released which is so strong as to blind us, as many were the things that we took for granted before. It is precisely through the breaking of the many limits created by prejudices that a new understanding of man's self has started, a man who appears unwittingly on the world scene, lives a life that is a continuous adaptation to the situation that existed before him, and finally disappears against his will. However, it is only in that indent that is written between the date of birth and death, a detail as small as overlooked, that man can try to understand himself in that constitutive penumbra condition that surrounds him. A similar penumbra is also reflected in the autobiography, whose value therefore lies in its intrinsic possibility of giving an image of man closer to his real depth: in other words, this is the beyond-human effort to give meaning to the human . In fact, it will be right before that authentic expression of what is based in the interior of the author that we will be able to recognize in the autobiography a real work of the spirit, and we in reading it will find ourselves in front of an open and evocative panorama on the background of which , as in the haze of a canvas, we can also glimpse something of ourselves.