once upon a long ago my mother brought this tatty book home with her...i have no idea why, absolutely none...but i read the first couple of pages, then a few more and then when it was finished (can you inhale a book? through the eyes?) went off and looked for more, after making sure that it was understood that this was, kind of but not really, or maybe moreso just on permanent availability for loaning out...and it has done the rounds....it's now more ragged and repaired, even has it's own just jacket and proper magic tape holding it together, but, it's possibly the one book which i've stumbled across which i would recommend to anyone whilst muttering in a self conscious manner something about the joy of a tale well told...the most magical world within that small town by the river po...and then many years later there was this italian who laboured under the false impression that he was don camillo...which surprised me as i had always thought that i was...but he does make the best coffee in europe (pavoni)...and as i think of the last and next cup of shared coffee it strike me that maybe, in some twisted idealistic way, we're both right and the inner camillo is the echo of the character on the page resonating with our dreams of self....who knows...salve:-)