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Rating: Three years ago, so it's probably been at least five. It's in the middle of a hairpin turn that a question mark aggressively worms its way in: it feels like a woodpecker is having fun hammering at my temples, and so at the first turnout I open the trunk of the car and realize I've forgotten the harness. 'Perdincibacco' is a curse that's galaxies away from the syllables I shout at myself, which finally come out in the form of smoke, 'faceva fret!', from my lips. If I were a cartoon, the palm of my hand would hit my forehead mimicking Homer Simpson's gesture. The Monte Agner via ferrata is a tough one, and even though it’s not a particularly cheerful moment in my life, I don’t feel like risking becoming a tiny article in the next day’s paper by attempting a climb without a harness; I stop at the first bar. White wines on the table at 6 in the morning, the scent of wood from the benches, and a dialect almost incomprehensible despite being only a hundred kilometers from home. I explain the problem to them and they suggest asking for a harness at a refuge, as long as they are still open in early October, or maybe opting for the 'Dino Buzzati' equipped trail, pointing out the path on the map I’ve opened.
Dino Buzzati. One of those typical authors I had heard about countless times but never delved into because I arrogantly deemed them too cerebral and boring. "The Tartar Steppe" and "A Love" I had even glimpsed in my parents’ home library, where at the time I still lived.
"The Secret of the Old Wood".
It's a fantastic tale where trees, animals, and winds come to life and speak, becoming co-protagonists of this powerful fable with melancholic contours capable of resonating with everyday reality. Nature as an apparently passive presence; it limits itself to judging with words or through silence what, over the centuries, it has learned to accept, although it often doesn't agree at all. The Old Wood has become over the centuries an anarchic tangle of branches, shrubs, and leaves deliberately left untouched over time, subject to the laws of nature: now that the last owner is dead and it's in the hands of a relative, a former soldier, it seems that the ax will triumph over those ancient and almost sacred bark.
It's a shrewd tale that, thanks to the contrast with the immutability of the plants and the faithful and honest actions of the animals, captures the progressive change intrinsic to the human being. Just as an adolescent can lose the ability to appreciate the 15 voices and the absolute silence of a forest, in the same way, a cold retired soldier can melt, tired of winning what is no longer a victory. I found worthy of multiple readings the description of the decline of a once vehement wind, now breathless: in the eyes of those acquaintances who cling in vain to a youth gone forever; finding myself pathetically running after a train, believing I might manage to hop on the carriage. A description balanced by the growing vigor of a frail boy who was once mocked by everyone and who turns into granite rock. He promises he won’t forget, that he will return consistently to hear the spirits of the Old Wood, but those inhabitants and those plants have heard such words countless times by now.
I think back to the characters and the story of this book, and it feels like I can sense the vegetation of an abandoned land growing and dying. It's difficult to accept change, to admit having a different viewpoint compared to the past. We take what we believe might be a good photograph, print it, and frame it to ensure it's protected from the elements; we fear it may get ruined, we reject the fact that if the photo were retaken it would be quite different from the image that characterized our existence. Who do we think we're fooling?
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