Transcript
Introduction
Towards the end of the night, the light of dawn spreads through the streets and brushes the houses of Solomeo. I love walking in this light when nature and man are still asleep. In these hours, before the door of life opens up to the pressing matters of an industrialist business to the unpredictable series of meetings with people who want to either give or take something.
In these small hours, I enjoy thinking quietly, wandering through this hamlet of the spirit, of my spirit, where every stone, every tree, every scented rose brings back a memory to my mind, a memory in which I recognize myself.
The whole Solomeo valley is a place of memories and ideas. I value ideas because I consider them more important than the things that they produce. My walk ends in this magical place where memory, concentration, and an eternally young sense of wonder impact my soul like an energizing drive. I am over 60 years old, and I know that nothing will give me back the same unbridled energy that as a boy, maybe run for mornings on end without ever getting tired. At my age, I can look back at the past with sufficient detachment.
This very same age also allows me to look ahead at the years before me, surely less than the ones behind me, with an attitude that prevents my dreams from turning into ash. When I look at the past, I see the facts of my life under a new light from the inside rather than from the outside. So I glimpse new meanings and events that are long gone, like when I was 13 and I led the oxen while my dad plow the fields. I tried to keep the animals on a straight course, and I excelled at that task, which now becomes the symbol of a whole life led righteously.
I also think of the Italian cafe that had played such an important role in my youth. I see everything in a different light now. The card games, the cups of coffee at 2 in the morning, the endless discussions about women, politics, philosophy, and spirituality that lasted until dawn. I look back at things from that time and I recognize them for what they were: a personal university in life and human knowledge. That environment helped me develop a passion for books.
I would always read when I was alone, especially philosophy. I'm reminded of Machiavelli during his exile. He too spent his afternoons playing board games and drinking wine, while at night, in the austere silence of his studio, he engaged in solitary, literary conversations with the ancient scholars. That is a great description of what reading is. Solitary literary conversations with the ancient scholars. Through these experiences, I have gained a knowledge that makes up for those long-gone pleasures and a desire that nourishes new ones. These include the love for Solomeo. Only recently have I managed to fully comprehend the nature and the need for this love, which is one of the pillars of my life alongside my family and my business. I felt that Solomeo was bound to be my homeland, a place that would become the homeland of my soul, the place where my soul had lived even before I was born.
These experiences led me to devise the project of writing about my life and my dreams of a humanistic capitalism born and bred in Solomeo. Writing a memoir is quite common, therefore, I pondered over this project for a long time. In the end, I chose to go for it because I think it has some special elements that hold some value. It is the life of a peasant who imagined and eventually fulfilled an entrepreneurial and humanistic dream that is well received, if not loved, in many parts of the world.
During this effort, I have received a lot of help. Because of the hope and the pleasure they give me, books come first and foremost. I cannot do without books because they teach us how to listen to the voice of man, both others and our own. This is why they are irreplaceable for our soul. Knowing oneself is just as important and perhaps more difficult than knowing those that we live with. That might explain why, since I was a child, I have taken to jotting down the most meaningful things in my daily thoughts in a notebook and rereading them over time.
One should not expect any coherence in these writings. In fact, the true meaning of my life seems to be a spontaneous drive and energy. Amidst all of this is a man proceeding cautiously and daring at the same time, paying attention to everything yet always sure of his beliefs. That man is me. And I feel I am driven by an immense desire that my life when it reaches its end, will not have been useless.
That is an excerpt from the book I'm going to talk about today, which is the Autobiography of Brunello Cucinelli, The Dream Of Solomeo, My Life, And The Idea Of Humanistic Capitalism. This is going to be a very special podcast because the English translation of this book is almost impossible to find.