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Cesario on Cesario

I write because certain forms only exist once they take shape. My books and literary projects begin with that impulse: giving form to what insists. Illuminato is a fable written for younger readers, yet it speaks across all ages: a beakless hummingbird is cast out of his own colony and learns to exist differently. The Book of the Simulacrum | Synthetic Consciousness moves into philosophical fiction. Twenty-two post-human intelligences, the Tronies, awaken in a world without humans. Each one carries a fragment of what we once were. All must decide whether to preserve their identity or merge in a last attempt at survival.

I recognize my voice at the friction point between language and form, when the writing stops describing and begins acting. My work relies on rhythm, symbolic tension, and layers of meaning that unfold through construction, presence, and contrast. I feel confident in creating atmosphere and visual transitions. What I’m working on now is sustaining longer narratives, with more exposed conflicts, without letting go of depth. I’m also refining my use of dialogue as a true force of movement, not just background.

I often find myself juggling multiple projects and ideas. That can slow the flow, especially when I demand precision too early. That’s why I’m learning to trust drafts and rewrites, as many as needed. Writing requires space, not just discipline. And it demands persistence.

I want these stories to crack open what we perceive as reality. To leave questions burning, without a frame. I write to move. Literature is where everything unresolved finds its way through. If what I write truly reaches someone, then my voice has fulfilled its role.

“Writing is a way of walking through inner landscapes. There is a place where memory and erasure intertwine, where words carry both what is said and what is withheld. My stories breathe in this threshold — between who we were and what we are becoming. Each text draws a path through unnamed territories, following the traces of questions that refuse to fade.”— Sergio Cesario

My childhood had its lights and shadows. It also had voids — the kind that echo, and sometimes teach more than presence ever could.

At a young age, I was fortunate to encounter people and places that didn’t try to erase pain, but listened to it. I spent time in institutions dedicated to the care of children — a space where absence taught and fantasy responded. That’s where something began to blossom.

Out of that strange and fertile soil, the first gestures emerged: early readings, improvised plays in the living room and backyard, drama classes that taught me to inhabit other skins. Perhaps it was during that unstable, intense time that my imagination learned to hide inside words — and words, to breathe through me.

I’ve always loved imagining, drawing, writing. As a child, my drawings led therapists to believe I was retreating from the world — but really, I was reacting to it.

What inspires me most is human behavior. How we deal with uncertainty. How we seek meaning. Writing allows me to explore those blurred places where logic fails but symbols speak louder.

Many people shaped me, but moving to the U.S. in 1990 was a turning point. With my grandmother’s help, I secured a work visa and started my journalism career — from foreign correspondent to anchor.That journey taught me not just to speak, but to listen.
The search for identity, the echo of memories — even the unborn ones. I’m drawn to the tension between human and machine, time and perception.My inspirations span philosophy, psychology, astrophysics, and the symbolic fractures of the present world.
Yes: writing shouldn’t obey rigid rules. It should make the soul visible through words. If the eyes are windows to the soul, writing is its unfolding movement.Words must arrive lightly, never forced — like water tracing its own path.
Both. I believe all life finds its way into the text, even unintentionally. Symbols, situations, traumas, affections — they all leave traces.Imagination is, in a way, just refined memory.
Yes. Places, characters, atmospheres — they all demand immersion. Sometimes I even interview fictional characters. They always have something to say.
Not exactly. But I jot things down — phrases, links, sudden ideas. I keep scattered digital notes like a trail of thoughts waiting to return.
Constantly. What’s written in the first draft often dissolves — or mutates into something entirely unfamiliar. Perhaps the true originality of a text lies in this: it’s never really finished. Each reading reopens a path, and every revision becomes a form of listening. A text lives as long as it’s revisited.
That question almost makes me smile. If there’s something I wouldn’t want in a biography, it wouldn’t be mentioned to begin with. Yet some secrets, once exposed, have the power to heal fear, trauma, and shame. Not even the most loyal guardian of silence can truly hide what has already been written — in another language, another body, another time.