There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that a novelist needs more than acres of grassy time in which to write. My mother gave me that gift. I was broke almost from page one of this novel, and all through its creation she supported me, telling me all the while the things that a child most wants to hear: that what I was doing was valuable; that I wasn't wasting my time; and that everything would work out in the end. What more could a son ask for?
The rest of my family played their part also. It was my sister, Claire, who introduced me to the novel-writing game; without her encouragement and example, I would never have thought to write this one. She read it at least a thousand times over, and every time she helped me make it a little better. My father, David Berlinski, who also read it a zillion times, gave me the model of literary excellence to which I will always aspire.
My agent, Susan Ginsberg, is a lot like Rice — a mysterious, almost supernatural force without whom the Berlinskis would be hungry.
Now I must say a word about the love of my life, Cristina Iampieri. When Cristina invited me into her studio apartment in Torino, I don't know if she quite reckoned on spending the next two and a half years not only with me but with a murderous anthropologist who hated to see anyone before ten; an extended family of missionaries; and an entire tribal village. Our apartment was not much larger, I should add, than the book now in your hands. In the mornings, she made all of us espresso, pot after pot; she rarely said anything about the water buffalo droppings in the kitchen; and I think Thomas Walker had a little crush on her by the end. But who wouldn't love her? She is wonderful and beautiful and incredibly patient; she has been the best of friends; without her, I couldn't have written a word. Grazie.