Once a year we sum up our existence and, for a few days, we reflect on the outcome. Then nature wants us to get used to the weight of the growing number of years, and we start making—always optimistic—predictions about the years before us.

This year I started a few days earlier to post on time’s balance sheet all that I have gotten in the past twelve months, as there have really been many changes and results.

I have come a long way, and I met many characters through my books. I created and produced, described and painted, rejoiced and suffered, beating the keys of my Mac, always trying to be as fast as it was. The emotions were born, grew, and got defined, and then they flowed into words that, when combined, always told new stories.

It has been a year of growth and new encounters, a collection of moments of great value. The passage of time, however, does not leave only positive signs.

A little consolation comes from the Italian language, which increasingly adapts to the vanity of the people as the cat’s tongue does to the shape of lard: I’m not growing older, but greater.