AUTHOR PAGE
Ferdinando Frega writes from a position that never seeks approval. He does not entertain, soften, or negotiate. He does not follow editorial models, does not chase audiences, does not build characters.
His books do not offer solutions — they open passages. They do not celebrate success — they reveal endurance. They do not ask for empathy — they demand clarity.
He writes only when necessary. And he stops when he continues to add nothing true.
Every text is an act of crossing. Every story is a device. Every word is an incision.
This is his method. This is his posture.
It was a January morning when my wife asked me to take the dog out. She was exhausted, coming off a night where sleep had refused to stay with her.
I resisted. She did not.
She used the only leverage that could work: “You know that in the morning many women walk their dogs. You could meet new people, talk, socialize.”
Women. The only attention I have never changed in sixty years. How could I say no?
I went out.
The first three hundred meters: only men. Tired. Defeated. No smiles.
Then I crossed paths with two girls who stepped aside, afraid my Labrador might bite them. I reassured them immediately: “Relax, girls. He takes after me. He loves women — he does not mistreat them.”
They laughed. And I got my confirmation: I can still make people smile. It is my real talent. Making them feel good.
A bit further ahead, I saw a woman with a small dog. As I got closer, I realized she was high‑level: prepared, elegant, impeccable.
The line came out on its own, loud, and clear: “My wife was right when she pushed me to go out this morning. She said I would meet interesting women… but I did not expect a beautiful one like you.”
Her response was immediate. Full smile. Thirty‑two teeth. She suggested letting the dogs get closer so they could socialize. The intention was obvious: she was aiming at the man.
Ten minutes of intense conversation. High cultural level. But my internal thermometer held me back. Something felt off, but I could not define it yet.
When it was time to say goodbye, one thing was missing: introductions. Neither of us knew the other’s name.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Ferdinando.” She replied: “Nice to meet you, I’m Mario.”
I thought I misheard. “Maria…?” “No. Mario.”
I had nothing else to say except the truth: “The pleasure is truly mine. You are perfect as you are. Or better… almost perfect as a woman.” “Yes,” she said. “Almost perfect.”
I walked away with my dog, thinking about how life never stops surprising you. But without losing focus.
Because the first one to surprise others — with my books, my stories, my accounts — has always been me.
And even if the name is Mario, to me she remains Maria.
Nando
