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I had never read anything by Tiziano Terzani.
In my fervent imagination, or perhaps it would be better to say gross ignorance, I imagined him to be a sort of Maître à penser in the style of Osho with an Italian twist: perhaps the images portraying him in his older phase, those with the unkempt white beard, misled me.
To tell the truth, I don't really know what Osho advocates either: but there you have it.
I admit that I am not fond of philosophies and/or so-called religious confessions: sacred Hindu, Catholic, Muslim, Raelian, and/or Mazingazetan texts leave me essentially indifferent.
The little (and poor) exploration I had the chance to delve into in a pseudo-academic setting has solidified this agnostic terrestrialism of mine: I must also say that as a child, fulfilling the sacred duties of an altar boy even amused me: the robe gave me stature.
For someone who was four feet eight inches tall - or a little more - it was not something to dismiss.
But soon the game became repetitive, cloying, and within a short time, I abandoned the habit to become an ardent follower of the (very expensive) cult of Space Invaders: the adherents were confined in the adjacent crypt of the Oratory on the side.
In the name of faith, men (and women less so: it is known they have always had an extra gear) have scientifically perpetrated the most heinous wickedness and the worst atrocities against those who were supposed to be the fruits, if not the very extension of God's nature: human beings.
Constructs of improbable heavenly derivation are supposed to daily guide us on the right path of life.
I have always preferred Zagor.
Or, in moments of more rigorous asceticism, Tiramolla.
But I respect those who enjoy the Deuteronomy more.
The increasingly bulging pockets (more modernly: bank accounts) of those who self-proclaim themselves as disciples and promoters lead one to think that things, in reality, are not exactly as They pontificate.
Only at this point, I no longer remember what I wanted to say about this book by Terzani.
To make it short: the book is a long and passionate dialogue/confrontation between two (sometimes the cat is there too, but it doesn't actively participate in the debate) with his son Folco, with whom Tiziano retraces his life and activity as a "journalist" - although it is hinted at several times that he never truly felt such - especially his last bequest, not only literary.
What I seemed to gather from these nearly 500 easy pages is that he was (and perhaps, respecting his improbable belief, still is) a curious explorer of different and unknown worlds.
At the time even more unfathomable than today.
But beyond this, perhaps I liked the book because it is what, deep down, I never had the courage or the opportunity to do.
Really talk with my father.
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