Massimo Gramellini
Fai bei sogni

Every day, in the late afternoon, I go up to my mother's (now empty) house: to water the plants, to air out the apartment, to look for documents needed to handle bureaucratic matters. Matters that are not only tedious. They are mostly painful: my mother passed away, through undeserved suffering, a little less than three months ago. And since this is the house where I was born and raised, I often find myself, while there, lingering in front of some open drawer: it is then that memories flood in, overflowing and uncontrollable. It's not even necessary to masochistically dwell on dusty photo albums: a simple old pocket knife, a creased notebook with the uncertain handwriting of my elementary school days, a lighter I thought was lost that resurfaces from the bottom of a drawer, along with distant episodes linked to it, are enough. A film, suddenly, begins to play in my head and in my heart; a "movie" that moves me, tenderizes me, but sometimes even makes me smile.

It goes without saying that two weeks ago, when the novel—tremendously autobiographical—by Massimo Gramellini (of whom I had read a book and knew other things but NOT his personal story) ends up in my hands almost by chance, the effect his pages have on me is truly overwhelming: just a few are enough and the film, which I mentioned a few lines ago, rewinds along the thread of a life's memories. Hence the emotions I felt while reading it (or rather, devouring it), and then the desire, I would almost say a "physical" necessity, to write about it here, if not a full review, at least my opinion. Even if—I fear—deeply contaminated by my recent personal experiences. But I know you will forgive me...

The terrible event that ravages Gramellini's childhood, namely the tragic death of his mother when he was just a 9-year-old boy, is not, however, the starting point for a story about the mere processing of grief. Instead, it is the bewilderment and then the rediscovery of a boy/young man/adult dealing with the fear of living, suffering, and inadequacy. Until he reaches a "happy ending" with many facets: first and foremost the affirmation, first in public life and then in the private sphere, of the Turin journalist and writer. But also finally in the discovery of the truth (the most "uncomfortable") about his mother's death, a truth that emerges from an envelope kept hidden for 40 years. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the happy ending lies in Gramellini's courage to scandalously lay himself bare in narrating the pains, doubts, and insecurities that have dotted the so obstacle-laden path of his existence.

Despite the subject matter, however, the tone is light and often ironic: one manages to smile, in short, and is surprised to do so. Moreover, in the most challenging passages of the difficult growth of the orphaned child, grappling with his early pains and the devastating sense of abandonment, the most sensitive and intimate strings of the conscience and heart of every reader are touched and shaken.

"Not being loved is a great suffering, but not the greatest. The greatest is no longer being loved."

So, "Fai bei sogni" is for all those who, in life, have lost something. And have the courage to seek the truth. Even if 40 years have passed. And even if the truth is the hardest to accept.