“In nature, truth is always far more beautiful than anything our poets— the only true magicians, can even begin to imagine,” says Konrad Lorenz, one of the founding fathers of ethology, whose research fueled the creative process that led to the adaptation of Bernardo Zannoni’s *I miei stupidi intenti*. Through the pages of Zannoni’s book, we have experienced—and deeply loved—that the truth and poetry Lorenz speaks of live out in a ruthless and painful way in our relationship with Scripture. Writing is not merely learning to navigate the labyrinth of typographic characters and reproducing them on a medium; it is training oneself to maintain balance on a boundary. That boundary is the discovery of the world. “Life is a process that seeks knowledge. To live is to learn,” Lorenz continues. 
Adapting a novel is always a gamble: you take something born in a certain way and, by necessity, transform it, place it in a different setting, and adapt it. That creation must adjust to a new reality. Faina, too, changes his nature the moment he sets foot—limping like Oedipus—in Volpe’s land. And his mother, like a violent oracle, an unwitting Tiresias, even predicted it to him: “If you break yourself, you’re damned.” Knowledge dooms you. And he changes his nature. And he finds a truth—a truth more beautiful than anything a poet could write. He finds writing. But he also finds the meaning of friendship, the importance of teaching and of memory.  
When humanity has failed, the animal returns to show us the way. This was, in a way, the driving force that—along with Michele and Gabriele—led us to an adaptation in which the world we face today finds dramatic expression. Writing, which lies at the heart of the novel, is also the great catalyst for this shift to the present, where memory is recovered—gathered from the rubble of a bombed-out land—and is transformed, transforming us in the process. A horror looms outside—how do I face it? How do the characters in this story face it?
With the strength of those who are “nobody’s children” and who, with dignity, seek to build a new society. By challenging anthropocentric prejudice. With the revolutionary power of literature. 

The allegorical power of *I miei stupidi intenti*, encapsulated in the animal/human dichotomy, allows us to freely identify with its deepest symbolic meaning. The journey toward self-knowledge of a weasel, narrated throughout the span of its life, prompts us to reflect on our own, and its unresolved questions are those of our daily lives.
What are our intentions?
What do we have to offer in response to the demand for awareness, meaning, and purpose? Only the word.
The word of God has always been a refuge to soothe the desire for self-determination, for it relieves us of existential questions, entrusting every claim to awareness to the mystery of faith.
Is this, then, our purpose: to seek comfort in something greater than ourselves?
And what if, instead of the word of God, we preferred that of Man?
“These are words; they belong to the page and remain there ,” says the weasel as she reads the book chronicling the fox’s life. Writing allows us to freeze time in our own way, enabling us to tell whatever story we choose and making us masters of our own history. Through writing, we decide what to preserve and what to let fade away: what shape to give to the past. In this sense, we become responsible not only for what we experience, but also for what remains of us. So is this our intent: to bear the weight of memory?
And what, then, is our foolish intent as directors?
To tell stories on a stage to evoke imaginaries greater than ourselves, or to attempt to stop time through the creative act, in the hope of becoming, in turn, memory?
We feel a responsibility to bring these questions to the stage, to understand whether theater can provide an answer or whether, instead, it is just another foolish endeavor.