I enjoyed this book for the man's genius, not for his perspective. Leopardi dwells on the wonder of a Golden Age, whether ancient or of youth and, after displaying that world of optimism, heroism and hope, morphs it into his reality: life bears no fruit, but is only futile suffering. His talent is certainly apparent, but at a horrible cost to the reader: the dissolution of happiness by overbearing depression. His prose consists in the observations of a wise atheist laced with cynicism.