You don't need another formula to be happy. Maybe you need to stop and look at your life.

A wonderful book. Without being a self-help book, it makes you think about what defines your life, your concerns, your fears... With a style of poetic prose, at least that's how I see it, it is a kind of song to true life, from anxiety. A very brave text with great expressiveness, elaborated, forceful. I was especially moved by the chapter about the mother. I will read it again with deeper attention, which is how this type of work should be read.

The author, whose work ranges from children's and young adult stories to essays and poetry books, moves us with a text -divided into 145 fragments- that I would designate as prose poetry, verbalizing the impressions and suffering caused by the decline of memory. The author does not need to apply the laws of metrics to express the loss of memories, desolation, or solitude (full of white). Although 'the tentacles of the hydra' have not managed to annihilate oblivion, 'a lump of mortar, absence, deep well lacking a bottom', in his beautiful words, the beats of an orchestra or the remote whispers of a shell illuminate the helplessness of the wide and empty rooms, the long hallways or the lost steps of the hospital of oblivion.

It is undoubtedly an attractive text, not at all baroque in expression, that does not claim great reflections or consequential statements. It is a pure, beautiful, hard, existential manifestation in which the author mourns his dead mother; from blasphemous temptation, harmful desire, as a primal response. Longing in beautiful daydreams. Acceptance in realistic, past concreteness... And through a path of grief and mercy, in which his fist delves into the dust, the spell emerges, and the fingers that open become a hand, and this communicates its misfortune/ashes to the water. Spattering in sprouts, it suggests the balsam that preludes hope. And then, the hand becomes a lap. And the water a riverbed, river of life. There are no sentimental concessions. Rather images, mental tears through which we all pass one day. And through the conjuration/mantra of particles in the wind, it brings us closer to serenity.

I find it important and valuable for European children to know their fortune, and learn to give thanks for it and share it, always, with everyone around them, whether two streets or two oceans away. I want more stories like this, please.