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\nSomehow, I was immediately seduced by it, reading of a \u201ccage that contained dreams\u201d, a quotation contained in a writer’s story, and I decided to browse through more pages of the book, of which I still remember a few words. An artist explained how \u201cstill life, in photography, is a means to elicit a secret from things and that a work of art should have the function of improving the world\u201d. I now was beginning to feel at ease, to have the impression of being in the right place. I continued to browse through the book and, in the next pages, found a text by a great American innovator who \u201cwarned against the noise of the opinions of others\u201d, opening a symposium with other authors who responded, in turn, regarding \u201chuman potential that often remains unexpressed\u201d, the \u201csearch for a dogma compatible with the infinite possibilities belonging to us human beings\u201d, and the \u201cimmaculate dress of Mong girls\u201d. Beneath some of the illustrations, other artists wrote about the \u201cthousand roles of a woman, which still allow us to dream\u201d, about \u201cPinocchio, who gives space to his inner voice, and about seeing reality without perception being filtered by expectations\u201d. I came across reading one of the final pages: \u201cDreams help us and transmit to us the purity of a figuration\u201d and then I was attracted by some beautiful quotations from \u201cBuddha\u201d and the \u201cDalai Lama\u201d. I recognized an image of Rome under which there was written \u201cIn a way, Piazza Navona is the theatre of the world!\u201d, and that there are \u201ctreasures enclosed in a little patch of land within the city\u201d. On other pages, I read with interest of the \u201cstunning current relevance of Leonardo\u201d, of the \u201cAmerican architect Richard Meier\u201d, of the \u201cHand of Constanza De Cupis\u201d, and also the description of a \u201clight which illuminates the room in which a woman whispers sweet words\u201d, written by an Italian film director. An American artist, at the beginning of one of the chapters, calls for \u201cputting on paper what the eyes see\u201d. A French artist echoes this by saying that he admires \u201cthose for whom a work of art is a mystery\u201d. A little further on, an Italian philosopher tells of a woman who had lived as \u201ca woman, although she was neither a woman nor a man\u201d, and then the confessions of two great Italian women: \u201cI have created a small empire, made of love, sacrifices, passion and work\u201d, says the first, while the other explains: \u201cWe must teach girls to be bold rather than perfect\u201d. An Italian artist is the author of the last words I can remember: \u201cThe photographer, like the poet, sees into the life of things\u201d. At that point, I closed the book. I felt a sensation of amazement for that rare concentration of minds, souls, hearts beating to tell their stories, united by the pages of a book, by the roads they travel (the streets where they meet), and by their images (the images they create). On the book’s back cover was a thank you to the reader: \u201cRoman Walks. With the courage and audacity needed to take a risk\u201d.<\/p>\n