Dicky

A child runs away from the funeral of her mother. A father she does not know. A lonely man brings her food and they become friends. She personifies an inheritance more fatal than the incriminating information her late mother hid somewhere. A foreign secret service is on her trail.

Actually, in writing these stories, I proceed like a painter. In front of me is a white repainted canvas that I want to fill anew with color. That seemingly empty canvas in these novellas is a man with an empty existence, colorless, meaningless and fed up with his days. But underneath it his fruitless past looms. Then he encounters a cat, dog, horse, child or woman that start to color the empty sheet. The man comes to life, which he puts at the service of the other. This delights his atrophied altro; it fills him with a unconditional love for the other, a non-egoistic love. A kind of reset and play, given to him bestowed by the gods or fate, or simply by his own desire.