Edmondo Berselli
Adulti con riserva

A better Italy. The Italy of the "short decade".

The fabulous sixties.

That end "tragically," but above all seriously, in '68, just as the eighties end in '88...: an inexplicable joke of the calendar.

An Italy that knew how to laugh, play, and above all, hope.

I must confess that I do not, fundamentally, have a great fondness for autobiographies. Partly because avoiding self-glorification seems impossible, and partly because I am one of those who believe that everything we do, write, sing, paint, photograph, etc..., is fundamentally autobiography... and, thus, it's better to disguise it as a novel and keep it short.

But here the discourse is different, and the credit is entirely, and exclusively, the author's, excellent in maintaining a semi-serious style, very fluid and absolutely pleasant.

The author's belief, what fascinates, involves and convinces, is that the sixties, the fabulous sixties, were an unrepeatable decade, full of life, with sublime lightness even in the ecstasy of a culture - even high - that was exploding, bringing to the people many things that we could simply call beautiful: in music (there's a lot of it in this book), in sports, in politics and generally in society.

In the end comes the tirade against '68. And the key interpretation is absolutely convincing: everything turned serious, brainy, aprioristically unfun. Suggesting that from then on, it would only get worse.

This book would deserve an ideal "sequel" on the eighties and beyond. Since generationally it is impossible for Berselli, in our very small way, we might consider it.

But if '68 was an overdose of seriousness, from the nineties onwards the cult of entertaining and cabaret-style fun, always and anyway, almost made one miss that slight seriousness.

Would Berselli agree? Who knows...

Anyway, the book flies by quickly and is entertaining. Written commendably and, in the end, entirely agreeable in its content.

Beautiful, truly beautiful.