The Island of Kisses

It is a book that remains out of literature. It is a book that turns its back with resolute confidence to all the boring and burdensome people who usually dedicate their activity to literary things: writers, journalists, philosophers, critics, thinkers, connoisseurs of art. To all of them will weigh on the stomach gourmet for a time, I hope, long enough. It is in fact a novel that is not a novel with psychologies that are not psychologies, of lyricisms that are not lyricisms, of satires that are not satires, of descriptions that are not descriptions.