«You should write a book about mom». A comment from Georgina on Marinella's birthday, years ago.

I heard it, I forgot it. I didn't take it lightly, but I knew I was unsuitable for a biographer, because of the style I write. For better or worse. I start from one place and end up somewhere else, my emotions intervene, I get angry with my characters, I do what I do, so that I am not included among the current giants of literature. I do not rave about the accepted "politically correct" and de facto untouchable major issues. With such a character, how could I undertake a Marinella, with whom we are indeed connected by several interesting decades, but I would not come up with halos and exclamatory crowns for the melodic world of the night.

«You know, I…». I raised objections, knowing my character. The other side insisted: «You are wrong…». «But I am a walking mistake», I replied. Eventually, the biographer "was captured"…

«You know me» ― Marinella.

«I love you, but I'm afraid you don't know me», I replied.

It went on for a while with "you know me", "you don't know me", until we decided to start the midday symposia in memory of Plato and other related symposium experiences. That's how we proceeded, illuminating with midday light the nights or even days of a life of soil, voice, love, toil, and much love. And it became a book that, without being a priori a biography, began to resemble my own novel.

G. X.