Carducci: verses without prefaces

In 1869, Carducci wrote by hand a truth that is still relevant today: ‘Let the verses speak for themselves.’ A letter that reveals his vision of art, his respect for publishing and his immortal critical lucidity. Private words, public echo.

Return after two years

On 3 April 1896, Lieutenant Augusto Benetti fell at Tucruf. It was not until 25 May 1898 that Modena prepared to welcome his body, on the orders of Mayor Francesco Zironi. Two years between battle and return. A letter, a flag, a community in silence.

Marconi, a missed opportunity

In 1910, Marconi offered Italy a technological and diplomatic revolution. The government ignored his vision, missing a strategic opportunity. A lesson that is still relevant today: supporting innovation is a choice of power.

Voices from the Resistance

In 1944, Antonio Bisconti wrote a letter to Enrico D’Ancona without rhetoric: rationing, poverty, but also signs of rebirth. An intimate testimony that reminds us how the courage to “build community” is the basis for rebuilding a country.

Memory that questions

Beatrice Gulì, between memory and identity, challenges us to listen to a past that is still alive. A reading journey that invites us to preserve history, reflecting on what remains unresolved and how much it can still teach us.

One message from Germany

From the heart of Germany, a young soldier writes to his family: he talks about horses, waiting, affection and dreams of returning home. A simple voice that transcends history and invites us to reflect on the value of time and relationships.

Three letters. Three female voices

Rome suspended between war, expectations, and illusions of protection.
In 1942, from a Roman boarding house, a sister, a niece, and a daughter write to Carmelo Basile, who remained in Tripoli. Amidst air raid sirens, daily hardships, and the conviction that “Rome will never be bombed,” a powerful human portrait of a fragile time emerges.
Reading these words today means listening to history as it unfolds.

A letter of recommendation

On August 8, 1937, Dino Grandi, ambassador to London, wrote to Alfredo Bruchi.
Between the lines emerges a romantic, idealistic, and passionate idea of Fascism, different from the official one: more institutional, inspired by the rhetoric of the Duce.
A man who evokes choices that, a few years later, would change the course of the country.
Discover the full text and read it in filigree.

There are letters that never grow old

They talk about fathers and sons, war and waiting, daily struggles, and a stubborn faith in the future.
In 1942, Tomaso Monicelli wrote to young Mario, who was far from home, torn between duty, fear, and affection.
These intimate words tell of a wounded Italy, divided families, and the difficult task of making ends meet without giving up hope.
A reading that asks for only one thing: to pause for a moment and reflect.

Testimony of an unshakeable feeling

A note. A few lines. A love that endures imprisonment.
On August 23, 1945, Giovanni Incerti writes to Carmen from the Port-Lyautey camp: he does not speak of pain, but gives hope.
Amidst forced silence and endless waiting, love becomes a refuge.
And writing becomes an act of courage that transcends time. Because sometimes a letter is enough to remind us what it means to be human.

A concentration camp. Dignity that endures

In 1943, while Europe burns and barbed wire seals the fate of thousands of men, a letter travels across distance and fear. It is the voice of Professor Antonio Avena, writing to Captain Luigi Fontana, interned in a German concentration camp after September 8. A few lines, measured. No desperate cries.
Only concern for loved ones, attempts to help, sincere wishes.
This is how one resists: with dignity, lucidity, humanity, even behind barbed wire.

A father watching from afar

On March 6, 1942, Tomaso Monicelli wrote to his son Mario, a young cadet in Pinerolo: amid studies, discipline, horses, and an increasingly difficult life, an intimate dialogue emerged, filled with affection, concerns, and silent hopes.

A precious document that recounts the strength of family ties, daily struggles, and the need to “keep going” when history weighs heavily on people’s lives.

Words that cross barbed wire

On December 10, 1944, Angelo Rigoni wrote to his beloved Bruna from the Bitterfeld concentration camp: just a few lines, yet full of humanity, love, and dignity amid imprisonment and forced labor.
Reading these words today means listening to history from the heart of someone who lived it.

A date, a war that transcends words

On September 5, 1944, Lieutenant Giulio Gualerzi writes to his wife Fausta: he reassures her, recounts the bombings, mentions “Pippo” flying overhead at night, while Italy is split in two and the army changes its face.
An intimate and powerful testimony that recounts history through a single voice.

The pride of a soldier, the shame of a nation

October 1943: Airman Matteo Di Natale writes to his commander after the armistice. It is not a farewell, it is an oath. “I always feel Italian, always Sicilian,” he confesses through tears, as Italy breaks apart and yesterday’s enemies become allies. A raw, intimate testimony that cannot be found in books.

When distance changes your perspective

In May 1943, while the war was tearing men and units apart, a young second lieutenant wrote to a friend.
He spoke of marches, malaria, food found among the people… and a strange freedom:
“Far from everyone, I feel like a feudal lord.”
A military postcard becomes a human, ironic, and disarming glimpse into war.
A fragment of history that deserves to be read today.

Luigi states: “I write, therefore I am.”

December 1942. A military postcard, a few lines, and inside there is an entire country faltering.
Lieutenant Luigi Spadafora writes to his friend Giulio while the war grips Italy in a stranglehold of defeats, retreats, and silence. Light irony, deep melancholy: writing as a last act of presence, resistance, identity.
Reading this page today means pausing to reflect on what remains of man when everything else collapses.

From the heart of Germany, October 28, 1943

Elizabeth writes from Solingen to her friend Marie Antoinette, while Europe burns and Italy has just become Germany’s enemy. Between the lines of affection and hope, the story of a friendship that withstands war, deportation, and terror emerges.
“One must always detach oneself from places that have become familiar…” – words that transcend time and still speak to us today.
An authentic testimony that is well worth reading.

When fathers wrote to their sons in uniform

Orlando Gualerzi writes from Rome to his son Giulio, a second lieutenant on the Yugoslav border engaged in military maneuvers. Between lines full of affection, preparations for university exams, books to procure, handouts to send… and the daily life of an Italian family in a crucial era emerge.
September 1934: while Italy prepares to conquer the Empire and Europe breathes an air of tension, paternal love remains unchanged over time.
An authentic testimony of family history that becomes collective history. A must-read.

Echoes from the trenches: the broken voice of Remo Galli

February 20, 1916: amid the smoke of cannons and the cold of the trenches, soldier Remo Galli writes trembling words on a postcard addressed to Don Carlo. He has just experienced a “formidable attack,” one of those that mark the thin line between life and death. Between the lines, the fear of not returning and the hope for tomorrow intertwine, as he entrusts the priest with a message for his mother: mass in the square, a thread of normality in the midst of hell. A raw and intimate testimony that takes us back 109 years.

In 1944, Italian soldiers were taken prisoner

Dignity does not surrender.
This letter is not just paper and ink: it is courage, faith, love that resists imprisonment.
Gino Menozzi, a prisoner of war, receives simple yet powerful words: “Have faith, take courage.”
In just a few lines, we see the strength of those who suffer without losing their humanity, and of those who wait without giving up hope.
Reading this testimony means paying tribute to those who were able to remain human even in the deepest darkness.

He always lives on in my memory

There are words that never grow old: they cross time like the sea crosses routes.
In 1928, Alfonso De Lalla entrusted to paper a solemn and humane farewell, dedicated to Deputy Chief Helmsman Vincenzo Farese, who fell at Bargal on October 26, 1925. The text, partly handwritten and partly typed, resonates with memories, brotherhood, sacrifice, and homeland.
It is not simply an archival document, but a voice that returns to speak, calling us to read and remember consciously.

Intimate and vibrant lines. Lightness and depth

When love takes notes while history passes by. An open window onto spring, a girl studying, a letter written almost in secret.
It is February 1934: Fausta Gualerzi writes to Giulio, who is far away at the officers’ school in Spoleto. She talks to him about the sun, about waiting, about desire, about the little everyday things that become enormous when love is young and history looms without yet being seen. A cultured, ironic, tender female voice that brings us the lively pulse of an era through the experience of a single person.

When the border whispered

A latte drunk in the rain, a forest shining in the night, fire drills a few steps from the border.
In August 1934, Giulio Gualerzi, an officer in the 12th Infantry Regiment “Casale,” wrote to his family from Val Corena: an intimate and vivid letter that intertwines daily life, military maneuvers, meetings with army leaders, and the echo of a history taking shape on the border with Yugoslavia.
A rare document, where high politics remains in the background and emerges in the details.

The future of cinema in a letter from 1941

In the heart of summer 1941, while Europe is engulfed in conflict, a letter crosses military Italy: Baccio Bandini writes to Mario Monicelli.
Amidst exhausting waiting, daily moods, emotional complicity, and a subtle vein of sarcasm, two young men in uniform emerge, resisting by imagining something else. Not yet masters of the silver screen, they cultivate visions, support each other, and tell each other stories. An authentic fragment that illuminates the birth of an era.

1944, Salò. An emblematic document

A letter to a young stenographer. Words of encouragement for “the moral rebirth of the homeland.” The Ministry of Popular Culture. History on a typewritten page that recounts the daily life of those who worked while Italy burned.
“Here it’s like a big family… we live by working with seriousness and decorum” – but at what price?
An authentic, intense, extraordinary fragment of Italy as it once was.

Cards alive since 1942. Tomaso Monicelli

There is a voice that travels through time and reaches us today. On May 20, 1942, Tomaso Monicelli wrote to his son Mario, then a young soldier, with concrete, domestic words full of concern.
Amidst parcels, waiting, and suspended plans, the war remains in the background, while daily life pulsates in the foreground. A rare, sober, and deeply human document that deserves to be heard and heeded.

A letter that tells the story of Italian politics

An unpublished letter to Giuliano Vassalli during the election of the President of the Republic reveals hidden dynamics. A citizen calls Occhetto and Lamalfa to support the candidacy of the socialist jurist, convinced that Italy needed “an honest president.”
But he discovers unexpected maneuvers: the focus is on De Martino, then the PDS-DC agreement leads to Scalfaro, while Napolitano becomes President of the Chamber of Deputies.
An authentic testimony to a crucial moment in the First Republic.

The irony, nostalgia, and charm of an era

“Venice, July 1945: Vittorio Bosotto’s secret letter to Mab” Dear Tildo, imagine opening a window onto a world suspended between war and rebirth: Vittorio Bosotto, with his sharp irony and heart in Venice, writes to his friend Maria Antonietta Basile. Between playful reproaches, nostalgia for the lagoon, and a cinema that makes you dream, this letter is an embrace that transcends time. Living words that speak of youth, passions, and a Venice that, despite everything, remains “la Serenissima.”

July 3, 1941: a Sicilian woman against all odds

A letter from 1941 recounting the courage of a Sicilian woman.
Sicily, July 3, 1941.
While war rages in Africa, Natalina writes to her uncle Carmelo, a lieutenant colonel in Tripoli. Between painful dental treatments, slanderous rumors, and daily struggles, the portrait of a woman who never gives up emerges. An authentic testimony of female resilience, unshakeable faith, and dignity in the midst of World War II.

An unpublished letter by Amilcare Ponchielli

An exclusive testimony, dated August 23, 1878: the composer of La Gioconda writes to his friend Telemaco Vassalli (grandfather of the famous jurist Giuliano Vassalli), revealing behind-the-scenes details about his career, negotiations with Ricordi, plans for new works, and surprising personal anecdotes.
An original document that sheds light on the daily life of one of the greatest Italian composers of the 19th century, between Milan, St. Petersburg, and musical dreams.
Read the full letter and immerse yourself in the musical Italy of the late 19th century.

A wound that has not yet completely healed

A letter that still burns today
Rome, December 18, 1976. Beatrice Gulì writes to the editor of “La Voce di Fiume” with fiery words about the Treaty of Osimo: “This is another betrayal!”
A powerful historical testimony on the Julian-Dalmatian question, written by someone who experienced the pain of the disputed border. Bice denounces the complicit silence, the broken promises, the trampled memory of the fallen.
Read this extraordinary letter that still questions our civil conscience today.

When History Meets Memory: March 24, 1975

An extraordinary document reveals a unique moment: the Italian National Grand Lodge convenes a Funeral Session to commemorate the Brothers who have passed to the Eternal East.
But there is more: the exceptional speaker Anna Maria Alegiani, actress and representative of “Giustizia e Libertà” (Justice and Freedom), the partisan movement. An unprecedented bridge between Freemasonry and the Resistance, between ritual and historical memory.
“Dark suit, white gloves, and Masonic insignia”—the solemn atmosphere of an era revived in the archive papers.

Italy grits its teeth and tries to start over

June 17, 1945: A love letter amid the rubble.
Amid censorship, hope, and “stratospheric” prices, Vittorio writes to Mariantonietta from post-war Milan. Factories at a standstill, ongoing violence, and the dream of starting over in Rome.
An authentic testimony of someone who experienced liberation but also the chaos that followed. Behind the censored words, a destroyed Italy emerges, struggling to get back on its feet.
Read the full letter and discover the voice of someone who lived through history.

Life in the heart of Sicily during the war

March 11, 1943: Lina writes to her uncle from Santa Lucia del Mela, a few months before the Allied landing. She flees from Barcellona Pozzo di Gotto, surrounded by the sea and bombings, seeking refuge in the mountains of the hinterland.
“At least here it’s the mountains, and the danger is less…”
A touching testimony from someone who experienced fear, hunger, and ration cards, but also family solidarity and the hope for peace. The authentic voice of a Sicilian woman recounting everyday life during the war.

The voice of a forgotten refugee

Antonio D’Ancona, 78, photographer from Fiume. A man who has lost everything and seeks help through two very different draft letters.
The first is overflowing with bitterness and pain, the second seeks composure and dignity. Both tell of the abandonment of someone who has given a lifetime of work and finds himself “begging.” A poignant document on the tragedy of the Giulian refugees in the post-war period, a direct testimony of those who experienced the exodus and the indifference of the institutions. Two versions that show the difference between screaming despair and suffocated dignity.

A postcard from the past: a story of duty and destiny

Rhodes, December 31, 1912. A group of Royal Carabinieri disembarked in the Dodecanese, which had just been occupied by Italy. But this photo holds much more than a military memory: on the back, there is a touching dedication from Ernesto Colonna to a fellow soldier who had stayed home due to illness. Words that sound like a warning: “So that you may remember Colonna and your troubles, which could be beneficial to you.”
An extraordinary historical document that intertwines friendship, war, and the weight of choices not made.

History, memory, humanity. October 8, 1943

A poignant testimony from the Sacchini Archive. Umberto D’Ancona writes from Padua to his brother Rico, trying to piece together news from Fiume, a city occupied by the Germans after September 8. Communications have been interrupted for a month. His elderly parents “are well, but must have little to eat.” The cannon fire of the partisans. Hope in the Red Cross postcards. A window into daily life at a dramatic moment: between anguish for distant family members, fragmentary news, and the desperate need to stay in touch.

From the Church. A letter from the African front

Tunis, December 12, 1942. A determined 21-year-old tank driver, wounded in combat, writes to his family from Tunisia. His name is Romolo dalla Chiesa, brother of the legendary General Carlo Alberto dalla Chiesa, hero of the fight against the Mafia and terrorism. But the story does not end there: the letter reveals a third extraordinary protagonist: his father, General Romano dalla Chiesa, and his role in the Fiume expedition—extremely rare information of inestimable historical value!
A passion for Africa and…

Two voices: friendship sustains us in pain

Turin, April 19, 1983. Ottone Servazzi, a veteran of the Fiumana Legion at the Bloody Christmas, and his wife Maria Laura write together to their friend Beatrice Gulì, recently widowed from her beloved Enrico.
First he, with words of closeness and courage. Then she, in the night while Ottone sleeps, confesses her silent battle: the arteriosclerosis that every day takes away her husband, who was her “true love.”
Two souls who, at 77 years of age and with the weight of the years, still find the strength to reach out to those who suffer. Dignity, calmness, pure humanity.
A moving testimony of friendship and inner strength.

A letter from the heart of Nazi Germany

Written by a young woman to an Italian friend in Libya. Solingen, October 16, 1941. Elizabeth Meyer writes to “Annionnetta” (Maria Antonietta Basile) in Tripoli, weaving together stories of friendship, hope, and desires suspended by war.
She talks about Hermann, the German soldier who introduced her to her. About her boyfriend, who has been stuck in South America for five years. Of the lucky charm she received as a gift and tragically lost. Of the four-leaf clover she sends her, a symbol of hope. Of the “tu” she proposes as a sign of true friendship.
A poignant testimony to how, even in the darkest moments of history, humanity seeks connections, beauty, and the hope that everything will end.

A letter from the front line

A blue card. A hastily written confession, passed from hand to hand, this letter from young second lieutenant Alessandro Pintacuda is an authentic voice that transcends time.
Amidst secret news, sudden movements, and imminent military operations, fear, moral fatigue, and a deep feeling for Paola, perhaps his future fiancée, emerge.
It is the direct account of a man at war who seeks normality, affection, and meaning amid the chaos.
A precious document, human even before historical, which restores intimacy and truth to a forgotten fragment of the twentieth century.

When fathers wrote to their sons in uniform

A surprisingly lighthearted letter, written at a time that was anything but lighthearted. On July 16, 1940, one month after Italy entered the war, Amedeo Giardino wrote to the Brandt sisters in a tone of affection, irony, and lightheartedness that leaves us speechless today. “The worry of getting fat and therefore no longer being attractive to you drives me almost crazy.” A rare fragment of humanity in dark times: nostalgia, vanity, dreams of return… and a life that tries to remain normal despite everything.

The forgotten wedding resurfaced in a greeting

A card steeped in history: in 1946, Ivanoe Bonomi, an important journalist, historian, and anti-fascist politician, sent his wedding wishes to Gabriella Brandt and Mario Monicelli. Just a few lines, but a precious fragment of Italy’s rebirth: the Constituent Assembly, an almost unknown wedding, and an envelope “recycled” from the fascist past, overwritten with a new present.
A surprising document, to be read and looked at carefully.

Waiting, lost messages, questions about the future

Venice, January 1944.
Vittorio Bosotto, an employee at ENIT in Venice, writes to his friend Maria Antonietta during days of war, occupation, and uncertainty. Between errands at the Hotel Cavalletto: does tourism make sense in a devastated Italy? How can a country be rebuilt without resources, industries, or hope? Immediate, sincere, sometimes sullen words. They speak to us of friendship, moral doubts, and visions of the post-war period. A historical testimony that moves and makes us reflect.

Love and war: Vittorio’s last letter

A heartbreaking letter from the front
Comiso, January 21, 1941. Vittorio Bartoccini writes an unusual request to his father: to help him marry Maria before leaving for the front. “She doesn’t want me to leave without being bound to her in a lasting and complete way.”
A few months later, his plane will be shot down over Malta. Vittorio will never return home.
An authentic testimony of love and sacrifice in wartime. A true story that deserves to be remembered.

Anna Maria, 1943: a face between war and dreams

A girl with the world in her eyes, her gaze full of intensity and a dedication that seems whispered between the lines: “To the silent, graceful, wild… a great actress, who had faith and affection.”
This photograph is not just an image: it is a fragment of life, a moment stolen from time, suspended between the harshness of war and the lightness of youth. Every detail—the expression, the light caressing the face—tells a story of courage, fragility, and passion. A story about those who, even in the darkest moments, were able to preserve beauty and hope.

Gastone, June 1945: the return you don’t expect

June 24, 1945: after years of war, Gastone Buzzoni finally returns home. An eight-day journey, filled with exhaustion, hope, and a single, great desire: peace. But the reality that awaits him is different from what he had dreamed of. Within the walls of his home, Gastone finds not only the affection of his loved ones waiting for him, but also an unexpected surprise: the newly installed British officers, with whom he will have to share his space and daily life. This story is not told in a book, but on a postcard, a small fragment of life.

Naples 1945, amid the rubble of the post-war period

A year before the referendum that would change Italy. While the city was trying to get back on its feet, passionate young souls wrote letters full of hope and political determination.
Enrico Argiroffi wrote words burning with idealism to Maria Antonietta Basile: “Our battle is about to begin… Let’s keep our spirits high and look to tomorrow with serenity.” These were the darkest months, yet there were still those who believed in a free, honest Italy, finally liberated from the fascist regime.

Mario Monicelli. Ferrara, october 1941

A love letter from Ferrara, October 1941.
A young soldier writes to his girlfriend Gabriella amid morning fog, dawn rides, and the wait for a long-awaited leave.
He does not yet know that he will become one of the greatest Italian directors of the 20th century.
Discover Mario Monicelli’s unpublished letter to his beloved: intimate words, hopes, and the daily life of a future master of Italian cinema.
A moving historical document.

Solingen, 1943: a love letter beyond the war

May 12, 1943, Solingen. A letter sets off from afar, crossing borders and silences, and arrives straight to the heart of those who wait. It is not just ink on paper: it is an intimate, sweet, and melancholic voice that defies the din of war to reach the beloved. Between the lines, everyday thoughts, memories of Tripoli—perhaps a place left behind, perhaps a dream—and even the poetic verses of Hermann Löns are intertwined, as if to envelop everything in a caress of words.

March 1940: “Dad, I dream of our Easter”

March 1940. Franco Ducci is only seventeen, but the war has already robbed him of his carefree youth. Enlisted in the II° GRUPPO SQUADRONI L.35 “S. MARCO,” he writes to his father from a distant barracks, his heart torn between duty and longing for home. He dreams of Easter with his family, with the aromas of a lavishly set table, laughter, and the warmth of loved ones. But fate calls him elsewhere: to the border with Yugoslavia, where history is about to write painful pages. This letter is not just a piece of paper: it is a bridge between two worlds. The nostalgia of a boy who would like to be elsewhere.

A difficult choice: “The Escape” – May 18, 1916

An extraordinary document that bears witness to a dramatic episode of the Great War. The Order of the Day of the Command of the 3rd Infantry Regiment recounts the desertion of four soldiers from the front in the Altipiani and the devastating consequences that befell them and their families.
A text fraught with tension, moral condemnation, and suffering, revealing the harshness of war, the weight of military honor, and the pain of forgotten civilians. Historical details accompanying this critical moment in World War I.

Ferrara, 1916: a portrait to remember

This is a portrait of Second Lieutenant Guglielmo Minerbi, who fell on Monte Mascio on December 12, 1915, with the Sicilia Brigade. His grieving family chose to give this picture to Second Lieutenant Paolo Emiliani as a sign of friendship and brotherhood between soldiers. This photograph is not just a face on paper: it is a fragment of history, a gesture that unites two destinies, a way of saying “you will not be forgotten.” Every detail—the gaze, the uniform, the handwriting on the back—tells of courage, of affections broken too soon, and of a memory that resists time.

Trieste 1948: a letter amid rubble and hope

Trieste, 1948. A wounded city, a people caught between two worlds, and a letter that carries the weight of an era. Mr. Oppel writes to Dr. Marziani, and between the lines we can read all the hardship of those who, after the war, find themselves living in limbo: between a past that no longer exists and a future that is still uncertain.
He recounts the difficult daily life of Italians in Trieste—the deprivation, the fears, but also the dignity of those who do not give up. And, deep down, there is a light: the hope of a new beginning, far from there, perhaps in Rome, where everything could start again. This document is not just a piece of paper: it is the voice of a people, the story of those who chose to rebuild themselves despite everything. Every word is an act of courage, a small step towards rebirth.

“My grandson, today the sky has fallen on us.”

Rome, July 19, 1943. As the city trembles under bombardment, Ada Garano picks up her pen and writes to her grandson. It is not just any letter: it is a cry of fear, a tight embrace between the lines, a way of saying “we are here, despite everything.” San Lorenzo is burning, the sirens are wailing, but in her words there is also the stubborn affection of someone who, even in the chaos, never stops believing in humanity. It is not just about war: it is about life, about those who get up after every fall, about those who resist even when the world seems to be ending. Ada is not a heroine from a history book: she is an aunt, an ordinary woman who, on an extraordinary day, finds the courage to bear witness. And today, years later, that voice reaches us intact, reminding us that memory is made up of small gestures, not just big events.

January 1944: “Send us fog, please”

January 1944. As the sky is filled with the roar of bombers, Cora Cesari picks up her pen and writes to her friend Maria Antonietta Basile. She does not talk about heroes or grand gestures: she talks about work, about days that try to remain peaceful despite everything, and about a seemingly simple, almost poetic desire: for the fog to return. Not out of melancholy, but because that gray blanket is the only defense against air raids, the only shield for a city that trembles.
This letter is not a document of war: it is a fragment of life, the voice of someone who, even in chaos, continues to hope, to work, to dream of normality. Cora is not a soldier, she is a woman who, between one siren and another, finds the time to write to a friend. And in those lines lies all the silent strength of those who, even in the darkest days, never stop resisting.

“I am twenty years old, with a dream and an ocean ahead of me.”

1927, aboard the steamship Niccolò Zeno. Alfredo Rosati is twenty years old, with a suitcase full of ambitions and the Pacific Ocean flowing beneath his feet. He is not a hero, he is not an explorer: he is an Italian boy who, between the rolling waves and the smoke of the ship, picks up his pen and writes an intense, ironic, melancholic letter. He talks about dreams of love, homesickness, adventures that seem endless, and a life that burns too quickly. This is not just a letter: it is a journey through time. Each line is a piece of a distant era, when the world seemed bigger and the possibilities endless. Alfredo does not only talk about the Pacific: he talks about himself, with his fears, his laughter, his youth measured against the horizon.

Christmas 1943: “May it be the last one during the war”

Solingen, December 1943. Isabelle picks up her pen and writes to her friend in Italy. There are no heroes in this letter, nor grand speeches: there are affections, everyday worries, the small gestures that keep life going even when everything seems to be falling apart. She talks about the cold, rationed food, fear, but also care—the care one has for those who are far away, for those one hopes to see again soon. And then, at the end, a wish that still touches the heart today: “Let’s hope this is the last Christmas of war.” A simple sentence, full of hope, written by someone who does not know that the road ahead will still be long and dramatic. We, who know the story, read those words with a lump in our throats: because we know that Isabelle, at that moment, still believed in the future.

Socialism between clocks and ideals (1890)

Late 19th century, Reggio Emilia. Vittorio Strazza picks up his pen and writes to Camillo Prampolini, one of the most authoritative voices of Italian reformist socialism. It is not just any letter: it is a recommendation, but also much more. He talks about Paolo Dallari, a young watchmaker and activist, describing his moral integrity with words that seem carved in time: “An honest man who lives his commitment with consistency and passion.”
This document is not just a piece of paper: it is a fragment of an era in which politics was made up of values, trust, and people who believed in change. Prampolini was not just a leader: he was a point of reference for a generation that dreamed of a more just Italy.

1932: “Talkies have stolen my livelihood.”

Aix-en-Provence, 1932. Nicchio writes to his cousin Aristide with a trembling hand, not from the cold, but from fear. He is a musician, one of those who until yesterday filled theaters with his notes, accompanying silent films with his art. Now, however, sound cinema has arrived, and he finds himself without work, without certainties, overwhelmed by a change he did not choose. “I don’t know what to do, Aristide. I feel like I’ve become invisible,” he confesses. This letter is not just the story of one man: it is the story of an era, of the fragility that every technological revolution brings with it.

Farewell to my brother, Prof. Luigi Marziani

His life was a journey between light and shadow, between symbols that only a few can decipher and values that everyone can understand. Prof. Luigi Marziani, 1st Honorary Grand Supervisor of the G.L.D.I., was not just a name: he was a guardian, a man who approached Freemasonry with the same passion with which one approaches a sacred temple. Every gesture, every word carried with it the weight of an ancient tradition, made up of brotherhood, eloquent silences, and memories that withstand the test of time. This obituary is not just a farewell: it is an invitation to remember.

1940: “Here are the coats of arms that will never return”

As the world prepares to change forever, Timina Caproni Guasti picks up her pen and writes to Alfonso di Pasquale. It is not a letter like any other: between the lines, vintage photos, coats of arms that carry the weight of tradition, and personal memories that seem suspended in time are intertwined. She talks about aviation, about men who bravely took to the skies, about details that risk being lost—like the smiling faces in those yellowed photographs, or the symbols that tell stories greater than themselves.

“So that war does not steal our dreams too”

Rome, December 9, 1943. While war ravages Italy, Giorgio Carpaneto takes up his pen and gives Rossana Ranieri something that bombs cannot destroy: words. These are not just any words: they are those of “Voce Iridea” (Iridian Voice), a poem that is at once an act of resistance, a declaration of love, and a stubborn hope. “Even when everything seems to be falling apart, beauty endures,” Giorgio seems to say between the lines. This is not just a literary composition: it is a fragment of light in a dark time. Each verse is an embrace, a way of remembering that, even in the hardest of days, art and love can be invincible refuges. War steals homes, streets, futures—but it cannot take away dreams, it cannot silence the voices of those who continue to believe in poetry.

October 16, 1943: “I am leaving, and Rome is burning.”

Rome, October 16, 1943. While the city is experiencing one of its darkest days—the roundup of the Ghetto is underway—Vittorio Bosotto writes to Maria Antonietta Basile. It is not a farewell letter, but a fragment of life suspended between fear and haste. “I’m leaving in a few hours, and I don’t know what awaits me,” he seems to say between the lines. Around him, history is unfolding violently, but in his words there is still room for humanity, for the details of a daily life that is about to be turned upside down.
This document is not just a piece of paper: it is a bridge between the personal and the collective, between the life of a man and History with a capital H. Vittorio does not talk about heroes, but about people, about those who stay and those who leave, about those who hope despite everything.

1938, Spain: “We believed in the impossible”

Spain, 1938. As war rages, Primo Benaglia writes words that burn with passion and certainty. He does not only tell of battles, but of strength, camaraderie, and that unshakeable faith in victory that today seems to belong to another time. “We were convinced we were fighting for something greater than ourselves,” he seems to say between the lines. A momentum that, decades later, makes us wonder: what does it mean today to truly believe in an ideal? A mirror that shows us a time when words had the weight of actions, when brotherhood was not an abstract concept but a reality experienced in the trenches. Primo does not speak as a hero, but as a man who has seen with his own eyes what it means to put yourself on the line.

September 22, 1940: “Dad, tomorrow we fly.”

Comiso, Sicily, September 22, 1940. From the military airport, Vittorio Bartoccini writes to his father with the calmness of someone who knows that words may be his last bridge to home. It is not a farewell letter, but a moment of real life, suspended between the routine of the base and the unknown of the sky that awaits him. He talks about small things: his love for his family, the tension before the mission, that mixture of hope and courage that only those who are about to take off into the unknown truly know. This letter is not just a document: it is an embrace that crosses time. Vittorio does not recount heroic deeds, but the everyday life of a young pilot who, despite everything, finds the strength to dream of returning home. “Don’t worry, Dad,” he seems to say between the lines, even though they both know that the skies of war are unforgiving.

The birth of a pillar of Italian culture

Relive the birth of a unique cultural enterprise: the Treccani Italian Encyclopedia.
On our website, you can read Giovanni Treccani degli Alfieri’s original introduction in text form and consult the entire 1939 publication in a browsable PDF that captures the editorial charm of the era. It is a journey to the origins of a visionary project which, starting in 1925, combined scientific rigor, civic ambition, and a passion for knowledge, becoming an essential reference for generations of scholars and readers. Discovering Treccani means understanding how an idea capable of transcending time and contributing to the construction of Italian cultural identity was born. It is a valuable opportunity to get closer to the sources, read the original texts, and rediscover the value of shared knowledge.

When politics risked a duel

A near duel in Montecitorio!
On April 23, 1908, the Chamber of Deputies of the Kingdom of Italy was the scene of such a heated verbal confrontation that it risked degenerating into a full-blown duel of honor. Amid accusations, fiery words, and wounded pride, some honorable members went so far as to suggest a real duel, in accordance with customs still alive in the political culture of the time. An official report, now available for consultation, recounts with surprising precision how the challenge came about, how the choice of weapon was discussed, and what steps ultimately led to a peaceful solution. The tension was defused with a handshake, avoiding a sensational outcome. It is a fascinating document that offers a vivid insight into the political and human climate of early 20th-century Italy.

An admirable and unexpected cause

A document from 1939, signed by Minister Giuseppe Bottai, provides a moving testimony to the concrete consequences of fascist racial laws. At the center of the story is Professor Elisa Levi, deprived of her job and professional dignity due to anti-Jewish discrimination, but who nevertheless managed to obtain a minimal financial recognition. A bureaucratic act that, read today, reveals the harshness of an unjust system and the silent strength of those who tried to resist, even within the folds of the administration. This document is not only a historical source, but also a warning that is still relevant today about the value of rights, memory, and individual responsibility. Reading it means confronting a painful page in our history and reflecting on the present through the voices of the past.

Stalin under the microscope of psychiatry

A rare document from 1942 offers a surprising insight into how Stalin was interpreted through the scientific categories of the time. In an article published in Pensiero Medico on May 1, 1942, the Soviet dictator is analyzed in the light of criminal anthropology and psychiatry of the time, disciplines then considered authoritative tools for explaining human and political behavior. Between somatic descriptions, degenerative hypotheses, and pseudoscientific judgments, the text reveals much more about the cultural and ideological context in which it was written than about the person being analyzed. It is a valuable source for understanding how science, propaganda, and prejudice intertwined at the height of World War II. It is a document that invites critical reflection on the limits of scientific knowledge and its use throughout history.

A voice that breaks the silence

A mother, seven children, a pen she cannot hold on her own. In 1939, Vincenza Febraiola, illiterate, dictated a letter addressed to the Avellino Police Headquarters, driven by grief and the need to obtain justice to defend her daughter’s honor. The document provides an authentic and deeply human testimony, highlighting the hardships of daily life, the strength of family ties, and the courage of those who, despite their lack of education, find the determination to make their voices heard by the institutions. Her simple and direct words convey all the intensity of a personal story that also provides a social snapshot of Italy at the time. A moving read that invites reflection on the value of dignity and justice.

The “Duke of the Sea” amid rubble and hope

A precious document, steeped in pain and faith, takes us back to the lost Italy of the post-World War II period. In 1946, Paolo Thaon di Revel wrote an intense and heartfelt letter, in which his despair for a wounded country, a sense of collective humiliation and, at the same time, a stubborn hope entrusted to faith and providence emerge. His words convey the moral and spiritual climate of an era marked by material and inner devastation, offering a sincere glimpse into the feelings shared by many Italians. The correspondence, accompanied by historical notes, helps us to better understand the protagonists and the context in which this testimony was written. It is a text that invites us to reflect on the value of memory and the ability to rebuild, even in the darkest moments.

When a theme from 1917 speaks to our present

A leap in time takes us to 1917, among the desks of the Regio Liceo in Ancona. Here, a young student, Luigi Marziani, hands his teacher an essay with a prophetic title: “A house without a library is a house without dignity.” Words written over a century ago, yet extraordinarily relevant today, which question us about the value of culture and knowledge in our lives.
That sensitive and cultured boy would later become a famous professor and dental surgeon, but it is precisely in those youthful pages that the depth of his thinking is revealed. His essay is an invitation to reflect on what really makes a home a worthy place, a refuge for the soul and not just the body.

1939: a love letter travels through history

From the heart of the 1930s, a precious and moving document has resurfaced: a love letter written in 1939 on delicate yellow rice paper.
The words are those of Wanda, addressed to her beloved Luigi Angelo Longanesi Cattani, a midshipman in the Royal Navy.
Every line vibrates with genuine passion, anticipation, and hope, conveying the intensity of a feeling that defies distance and the uncertainties of a difficult era. It is not just a private letter: it is a fragment of real life, a testimony that intertwines personal and collective history, the love of a woman, and the courage of a young officer.

1942: a document that warns us

There are pages of history that we would like to forget, but which we must instead preserve as a warning. In 1942, Professor Gislero Flesch published an article with a chilling title: “To instill a racist conscience in Italian women.”
A text that today seems aberrant, unacceptable, deeply wrong. Yet it existed, it was written, disseminated, read. It represents a wound in our collective history and reminds us how far ideology can go when it feeds on hatred and discrimination.
In the face of the ideological resurgence that is sweeping through our present, this document takes on particular significance: it forces us to question ourselves, to remain vigilant, to remember that history can repeat itself if we let our guard down. Read so as not to forget, so as not to repeat the mistakes of the past.

Milan 1853: seven lives, one day, history

Milan, February 9, 1853. Seven men are hanged by order of the Austrian authorities. Their crime? Participating in the popular uprising of February 6, a rebellion against the foreign occupation that dominated Lombardy. A poster from the Imperial Royal Printing House coldly documents their conviction and execution, which took place in a single day. Behind those bureaucratic lines lie seven broken lives, seven stories of courage and despair, seven names that Austrian repression wanted to erase from collective memory. Today, that poster is a powerful testimony to an era of struggle for freedom, of sacrifices that built the Italy we know today. Reading those names, those words, means honoring those who paid with their lives for the price of rebellion.

1944: Fiorello La Guardia’s broken promises

In the midst of World War II, while the world was burning, New York City Mayor Fiorello La Guardia sent a message of extraordinary foresight: respect among peoples, freedom for every nation to choose its own destiny, a future without war or exploitation. Words full of hope, spoken at a crucial moment in history. Yet, eighty years later, rereading that message causes a twinge of sadness. How many of those promises have been kept? How many have been betrayed, ignored, forgotten? The world that La Guardia imagined still seems far away. But that is precisely why it is worth returning to those words, listening to them again, letting them resonate. Because the memory of betrayed hopes can become a stimulus not to give up, to continue to believe that a better world is possible.

A fragment of memory from the nineteenth century

A small paper masterpiece survives in the folds of time: a fragile and precious embossed card from 1855 entitled “Sacred to the Memory of the Heroes.”
It is a tribute to the heroes who fell in the battles of Alma, Inkerman, and the Crimean War.
Two mourning angels watch over the epitaph, one clutching a palm, the other laying down the trumpet of the revival: figures that seem to guard the pain of the mothers and wives left behind in their homeland.
Around them, the ivory frame and Gothic arches convey the delicacy of an ephemeral art, yet one capable of defying the centuries.
A rare document, steeped in poetry and history, which we can now admire as a witness to an era and the memory of those who never returned.

Zandonai and the hero: between music and memory

In 1929, Riccardo Zandonai, one of the greatest Italian composers of the early 20th century, signed a portrait dedicated to Vittorio Arangio Ruiz, a decorated hero of the Great War. It is not just a photograph: it is a document that intertwines art, history, and national sentiment. Zandonai’s words exude gratitude and pride, celebrating the courage of a man who served his country with honor. This gesture reflects the climate of an era when music and historical memory went hand in hand, when great artists became spokespersons for collective values. This fragment shows us an Italy that was trying to rebuild its identity after the trauma of war, through the recognition of heroes and the celebration of culture. A precious encounter between two worlds: that of music and that of sacrifice.

When Italy and America engaged in dialogue throughout history

A letter from 1922 opens a window onto a distant world: on one side, Carlo Schanzer, a prominent Italian politician; on the other, Charles Evans Hughes, US Secretary of State. Between the lines of this diplomatic correspondence, international relations, tragic events, and the complex fabric of relations between two nations are intertwined. It is not just a bureaucratic document: it is a living fragment of History with a capital ‘H’, allowing us to hear the voices of those who built diplomatic bridges at a crucial time, marked by the consequences of the First World War and the challenges of reconstruction. Reading this letter means immersing oneself in an authentic dialogue, characterized by institutional respect and historical awareness, between two figures who helped shape their time.

1938: a mother’s letter to the Duce

In 1938, a woman named Paolina Arcangelo took pen and paper and wrote to the Duce. She did not ask for privileges, but for help. She was the mother of seven children, her husband was ill, and she worked hard for the State Railways, exhausting her strength day after day. Her letter is a cry of dignity in the midst of misery, a human document that transcends time and gives us the voice of someone who, despite being crushed by difficulties, does not give up hope. Simple, direct words, charged with that profound humanity that only those who struggle to survive can express. Today, this letter, digitized and preserved in our archive, reminds us that behind the great historical narratives there are always real people, with their sufferings, their sacrifices, and their indomitable desire to move forward.

1936, in the midst of war, from the steamship Sicilia

Spain, 1936. Civil war is tearing the country apart, dividing families and nations. On the steamship Sicilia, in the middle of a stormy sea, a father writes to his distant daughter. His words describe dramatic scenes: executions, nuns forced to flee, violence spreading mercilessly. Yet that letter does not contain only horror. There is also something greater: the transmission of ideals, of values that resist barbarism, a spiritual legacy stronger than weapons and destruction. A father who, even in the midst of tragedy, never stops educating, believing, and hoping. Today, rereading those lines, we realize how much that voice still speaks to us, how urgent it is to remember that ideals can survive even in the darkest moments.

1925: the forgotten voice of a Garibaldian

An extraordinary document has emerged from the Sacchini Archive: the handwritten application of Nereo Ferrari, born in 1845, a veteran of Garibaldi’s legendary campaigns of 1860, 1861 and 1866. In 1925, now in his eighties, he applied for admission to the Veterans’ Federation, attaching an unpublished memoir of his life as a combatant.
Behind those trembling lines lies a piece of Italy that was forged with the blood and courage of men like him.
There is the living memory of the Risorgimento, of the marches, the battles, the fallen comrades. There is the dignity of those who, aged and probably forgotten, claim their place in history.

1940: an invitation, a regime, a celebrated memory

Summer 1940. The Minister for Italian Africa, Attilio Teruzzi, writes to His Excellency Carlo Schanzer: it is a formal invitation to the memorial service for Italo Balbo, on the thirtieth anniversary of his tragic death. A few lines, seemingly formal, but full of meaning. Behind that letter lie the rhetoric of the fascist regime, its rigid hierarchies, its symbolic codes. The cult of the fallen becomes a political tool, memory is orchestrated from above, celebrated according to precise liturgies. Every word is weighed, every gesture has propaganda value. This fragment from the archives still questions us today about the political use of memory, about the fine line between authentic remembrance and celebration of the regime, about the way in which power has always sought to appropriate illustrious dead figures to strengthen itself.

1946: Carlo Tyrolt’s dignified despair

‘Please excuse me for bothering you…’ Thus begins Carlo Tyrolt’s letter, written in 1946, a year marked by the ruins of war and dramatic tensions with Yugoslavia over the issue of Fiume. A few words are enough to reveal a universe of restrained suffering, subdued hope, and dignity that persists even in despair. Tyrolt does not shout, he does not demand: he asks modestly, almost apologising for existing. Behind that formal courtesy lies the weight of someone who has experienced the horror of deportation to Germany, who has seen certainties and boundaries collapse, who is still looking for a foothold to rebuild his life. His diary, a direct and invaluable testimony of a deported Italian officer, completes the picture: words that give us the naked truth of history, without filters or rhetoric.

1923: shadows over the Pontine Marshes reclamation project

Corruption, waste, opaque management: in 1923, Gian Francesco Guerrazzi drafted a confidential report for the Undersecretary of Agriculture. The subject? The serious anomalies found in Clerici’s management of the Pontine Marshes reclamation project. It was an uncomfortable document, casting a disturbing shadow over one of the regime’s most celebrated projects.
Guerrazzi’s words leave no room for doubt: behind the rhetoric of reclamation and progress lay questionable practices, waste of public resources, and perhaps outright fraud. This testimony calls into question the official narrative and forces us to question the transparency of public affairs even in seemingly monolithic eras.