Do not look for houses around a square, here you will not find them. Furore, the village that is not there, the village no village, its houses climbing up the mountainside overlooking the sea. It reveals itself little by little, with coquettish reluctance.

You will walk on narrow paths, small plots of land miraculously taken from the wild mountain and cultivated with ancient love, almost stubbornly.

You will drink wine – white and red – fresh and lively, “able to throw in you all the sun and the joy you have on your skin”.

You will admire vineyards and gardens, terraces and pergolas, hills and turns straight on the sea. And walls: drywall, painted walls, historiated walls. Talking walls. Art walls.

And churches and bell towers and arabesque domes.

Dizzying views immersed in a light without sounds, suspended, unreal and secret like a fable.

You will hear the silence.

You will gather the breath of the universe in the distant voice of the sea.

You will feel the scent of myth in the breath of some nymph in love, who has always lived in these ravines.

You will live in a dreamy, yet unsettling, athmosphere where every look is already emotion and every thought is already dream.

Furore, the country that is not thereRaffaele Ferraioli's book

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