ABSTRACT
At the theatre with my mother-I was fifteen years old when I went to the theatre for the first time, in Rome. My mother took me to see Cyrano de Bergerac. The hero was played by Gino Cervi, a very popular Italian actor. But it was neither he nor the other actors who impressed me, nor the story which I followed with interest but without amazement. What impressed me was a horse. A real horse. It appeared pulling a carriage, according to the most reasonable rules of scenic realism. Its presence suddenly exploded all the dimensions which until then had reigned on that stage. Because of this sudden interference from another world, the scene was torn asunder before my very eyes.
