The monster of Florence

The horror. Approaching the story of the Monster of Florence is not simply a matter of research, writing, or staging: it is a direct confrontation with horror. Choosing to tell this story means deciding to descend into a territory where evil no longer wears masks, and in attempting to represent it, you realize that words and images risk hurting, betraying, or adding more pain to that already inflicted. Every detail, every reconstruction, every imagined dialogueweighs like lead. The  constant feeling that there is something missing. You sense the danger of slipping into morbidness, of turning pain into entertainment, and, on the other hand, the temptation to soften the horror to make it more bearable. But horror, in order to be truly portrayed, must be traversed. Not avoided. And a story, to come through with clarity, without embracing a thesis, must begin at the very beginning. Because telling a story with honesty, with respect, with rigor must still mean something. Perhaps not to resolve, not to understand, but to remember. A way to stand beside those who remained there, forever in the night, and say: you have not been forgotten.