Christmas is a white mountain, Christmas is Mont Blanc.
Christmas is a sea of snow, even when it isn’t snowing.
Christmas starts on the Feast of St. Ambrose and ends the year after.
It begins when we still believe in fairytales and ends when we don’t want to believe in fairytales any more.
Christmas is a card from the Alps: there’s my mother’s mother and your father’s father, there’s my uncle on the sled and your aunt on the cable car. And you and I didn’t exist yet. But look, here we are in this other photo, which is in colour... there’s the date: 1976... and who’s that
there? No... don’t tell me... it’s your cousin?! ...how she’s changed... but her smile hasn’t... it’s just the same as it is now
Enchanted Mountains, Heavenly Mountains, Sacred Mountains that safeguard our dearest memories.
Mountains: peaks, valleys and slopes. Up and down and then down again and then up again and then further up again, like the ups and downs of the emotions that overwhelm us every Christmas. Christmas is a pink mountain, Christmas is the Monte Rosa which you can see from Milan, sharply as though it were near, on clear sunny days.