I have to admit I bought this book for the wrong reasons: because the author originates from the Veneto region, and because I love polenta. It's a nice and nostalgic childhood memoir, a genre to which I am profoundly indifferent. Francesco grew up in a dirt poor family and was partly brought up by a maiden aunt who offered him his first trip to the seaside. Later he followed a cherished classmate to the seminary, but gave up on becoming a priest (or was rejected?). Although hunger is a leitmotive in this book, it never feels as raw as Istrati's "Les chardons du Baragan" which I read a few weeks ago. Tessa remembers having been hungry but, luckily for him as a human being, and sadly for him as a writer, he has lost the bitterness and frustration which must have accompanied his hunger. One interesting thing is that oddly enough, these people were so poor the Mussolini régime left them alone. None of them joined the fascist party, and few saw active service in the army. They were briefly enthused by the dream of an East African Empire, but realized soon enough that with or without an Empire, their fate would remain the same. Tessa doesn't go into the reasons that led him to follow his parents to Belgium after he decided against becoming a priest, and the more is the pity. Somehow I expected the theme of forced emigration to loom larger.