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My mother gave me this book when I was seven years old. She got it from a salesman who was smart enough to convince her that the book was perfect for a seven years old, even though it was a book of more than a thousand pages, and an expensive one, with an heavy binding that made it difficult for a little boy to handle. Well, this was probably the best gift I ever had. I read the book countless times, totally fascinated by the weirdness of the characters and by the gruesomeness of the stories, elements that hugely enhanced the sweet flavour of the unavoidable happy endings. German and Nordic folktales in comparison were for little kid, I thought back then.
It was because of this book that I later fell in love with the magnificent work of Italo Calvino. It started my obsession with the structuralist analysis of fairy tales of Vladimir Propp as well, and a passion and respect for folktales still alive after so many years.
It was because of this book that I later fell in love with the magnificent work of Italo Calvino. It started my obsession with the structuralist analysis of fairy tales of Vladimir Propp as well, and a passion and respect for folktales still alive after so many years.