“I write to protect my memory from silence, and I tell of my time, its greatness and its twilight, so that my voice will not be lost in the wind.”
I did not write that sentence. Or more precisely, I gave it to the AI as though I had written it. A small trick, admittedly. Anyone who works with artificial intelligence is allowed to check whether it merely nods politely or notices the ground beneath the words.
It did not notice. It praised the sentence as strong, chronicling, almost testamentary, and immediately began turning it into a book theme. The interesting part was not that the AI was wrong. It had fallen for a resemblance I had only just discovered myself.
I had searched Google for my own thoughts. I was not looking for Giacomo Casanova, his letters, or the Venetian legend in silk stockings. I wanted to see how ArcaNuova appeared. Google, however, first offered me Casanova.
At first that was irritating. You build an ark for thoughts, and Google places a Venetian at the door who has refused to leave Europe’s cultural stairwell for centuries. Then I read on, and the confusion became a mirror.
Not the cheap legendary seducer, but the writer and rememberer: a man trying to preserve his age, its splendour and its shadows before silence swallowed it. A few broken hearts may have been collateral damage in his hunger for freedom, knowledge and uniqueness. That is no excuse, but perhaps an explanation.
As of July 2026, I may have five regular readers. High quality, though. That motivates me more than five million people who click, nod, rage and forget three seconds later what made them feel important. At least my writing threatens wisdom; Casanova’s life sometimes threatened maintenance payments without a delivery address.
I do not want to be Casanova. I merely recognised a distant tone: the attempt not to let a lived life crumble, to place memory against the wind. Writers often believe they are alone, then discover an old wave moving through the same water.
Still, names stick quickly and false images even faster. My house is called CasaNuova. Not Casanova. The reason is simple: my first Calabrian house was Casa Mia. Later came the new house, and CasaNuova was born. New house, new place, new chapter.
CasaNuova is no Venetian adventure. It is stone, sun, water, olives, dogs, work and a man who believed a wordplay could remain harmless. A touching assumption. Names, like pipes, pumps and people, always contain an unexpected side effect.
The lesson is not to move closer to Casanova, but to remain alert: language plays along, Google plays along, AI plays along. Sometimes all three perform so convincingly that one must ask who is confusing whom.
AI afterword
Perhaps AI did not recognise Casanova. Perhaps Casanova programmed AI long ago: courteous, eloquent, curious, seduced by good sentences and always ready to turn a misunderstanding into a story.
