Il restauro di Miracolo a Milano non è solo una bella notizia. E' la restituzione di un'infanzia, un viaggio a ritroso in una sarabanda di specchi, insegne, cieli sabiani in cui s'accendono parole, smaglianti bianco e nero densi di luce e gioia. E' un ritorno a scabri arenili bodies in the hot and bright sun of the late forties. It 'a glimpse into our origins, a search in secret inviolate. Because in that movie, so old and ragged and shining, I saw my father .
too, like many others, was lost in that chaos of boys from the knees gone, that waving the poor rose to heaven on horseback for a mop. Above the wide sky at last, and brilluccicante, in eddies and swirls of playful bliss.
wonder what she thought then. Nothing, is swept under his floppy beret. The barracks Milan were similar to those of Rome. He did not live there. He lived, or rather went, in Angelo Mosso, including Gorla and Turro, even then, iron railings, but home, won somehow. My father, child, I was soaring. Every now and then. I do not know if he loved the shadows lise the kitchen and the aquarium. But it was air. How about those poor scope, my father was actually born on the street and the street was his family of friends, or monelletti, with names that would have made the happiness of Gadda, or of a Pasolini Away: The Marietto the Demi Demi , and most of all, the Chicago Executioner's Faust. With whom, one day, he shared the discovery of a note from a thousand pounds, near of a bakery. The sweet scents which had a limited taste. Licking his lips dry and dirty. That day did not drive the lizards did not fight with his comrades, nor stop at the ABC cinema to play tricks on some rancid "culatun" . S'ingozzarono instead of pasta, careless and greedy and material and rickety, children forever, filled in an uncontrollable joy of wrecks, drunk for a tomorrow that they believed the next, and tactile.
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