Alfonso Mangone was born in Altavilla Silentina, in 1958, a sort of Dionysian town, among wineries, donkeys, goats, sheep, stray dogs and cats.
A place pervaded by the smell of wood and fires in winter, the smell of fields, sauces, freshly picked tomatoes in summer. With dried figs, poverty marks a life that is nevertheless luxuriant, a shared life, between the din of the table and the games of children. The smells of sauces came from the open doors of the houses. On the ancient wooden doors, there were no keys, because the keys hung on the walls, as if they were a work of art, rusty, heavy, huge. Howls, grotesque, ancient languages flew across the country. Strong handshakes, vigorous greetings. There was no telephone to call each other among friends, but there was the wild scream that broke the wind. The ancient games of children, instinctive, joyful children.
The town was drunk with wine, the cellars everywhere were full of the smell of marc.
Shops everywhere where you could find fabrics, tailors, cobblers with their black smelling of pitch, pinchers, acrid smells of cheese, aromas of cured meats, delicate smell of dried fruit. On every windowsill red spots of chillies, including basil, wild oregano. There were stables for each family, when each had his own donkey as a means of transport and his own goat, among the strong smells of animals that even gave pleasure, the dung of the donkeys in the sun, among the river pebbles of the village alleys. And among the haystacks, like yellow patches of straw, the red of loves hid.