There would be much to tell of what happened in Rome in front of my eyes and around me, the war and the extraordinary years that followed, between Piazza di Spagna, Via del Babuino, via Margutta and Via Flaminia. At such a distance from the facts and the world of yesterday is even difficult to align the memories in an order any, place them in time to the exact distance, in the order of days and years.
Then everything seemed unimportant and nothing worthy of our lives seemed to resist in time. Yet there are places where the memory seems to wait for someone, a visitor melancholy, or a reporter willing, a hunter at random in small woods in the past.
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