We're breaking our own rule. The book demands it. We read it, and everyone here had something to say.
This is an honest account, born from the heart of a father who can't manage alone anymore—who can't carry the weight of a son like Moreno. The harsh moments that might unsettle the pious are the expression of the brutal life that such severe disability imposes. But they're also—if you know how to read between the lines—an expression of the deep love he bears his son, captured in that final image: the beautiful meadow of daisies he refuses to trample.
Mariangela, 78
The pain, disappointment, and rage of a father toward his severely disabled son—spit out, even violently—but veiled by a merciless, sometimes hilarious irony. Reflections of a father who loves his son but hates his disability, a father fighting his pain in daily hand-to-hand combat with this child, trying to give him a voice. He expresses thoughts the boy cannot express himself, and probably cannot even form in a mind as small as a zigulì.
Rita, 63
"A father sees himself reflected in his severely disabled son and shares with us the dramatic contradictions of man—of humanity. Some images here have the emotional power to linger in my memory long after I've finished reading. This is an important book, profoundly honest, almost unbearable except for the love that seeps from every page. We carry a great responsibility now that we've read these words: that Moreno, his father Massimiliano, his mother Francesca, his brothers Jacopo and Cosimo, and everyone living this reality, know they are not forgotten."
Cristina, 42
Moreno's father, a man with a severely disabled son, becomes a writer. He shares his doubts and wounds with us in the voice of a personal blog: thoughts—some just a line long, some bitter, some sorrowful—poured onto the page without censorship. The result is an intense collection of texts with a bittersweet flavor, much like tiny zigulì.
Matteo, 23