The novel opens with a dream.
The protagonist, Stefano, who is also the first-person narrator, is taken hunting by his friend Francesco among the hills of his native Piedmont.
The woods are a composite of «cascades and pyramids of assembled nightingales», a paradise of happiness; and then, suddenly, the

treetops were mounds of tiny, corroded, greenish skulls, chiming sinisterly against one another by the millions

.
The dream foreshadows the overarching meaning of the novel, which unfolds between memory and present life, between violence experienced and imagined on the one hand and the «tangle of everyday things» on the other.

I must force myself to remember.
I must try, because these memories lie buried, in bristling confusion and separated from me.
I was fine, normal and cheerful and aggressive as long as I managed to live outside of myself

.
The country house is a significant touchstone for the protagonist, both for the nature surrounding it and for the terrible events that befell him in his youth: the death of his grandfather, the killing of a German soldier, his participation in the partisan resistance.
Stefano now lives in Rome, a successful man, but a growing restlessness has prevented him from marrying, and he drags out a monotonous relationship with his now-former fiancée.
The decision to visit the old country house together, where his stern father still lives, seems capable of rekindling their relationship, but the weight of memory is too overpowering.

I grew up among the dead, Lu, and I was able to put them aside, to place them far off, by dint of hoping for peace, for the shared and long-awaited victory...
And today, it is only right that I return to scrutinize them at my side....
Don't be frightened, Lu, everything will carry on as before anyway, as it always has, even us! even through our own fault!

.
The return to the places of his youth is futile.
«Perhaps, the author concludes, we shall have to submit to an eternal resignation».
It is an illusion to hope that returning to the past might bring deliverance from the nightmares born of memory and the disillusionment of youthful hopes and desires: only living «in the humble dawn of each day», devoid of plans and dreams, can offer a measure of peace.

It is a deeply pessimistic novel, wherein the writing achieves its finest expression precisely when it assumes lyrical and evocative tones, as in the depiction of the hills and the narration of dreams.
In the background loom the momentous events of the post-war era (the bewilderment following the collapse of fascism, the Resistance, the failure to enact the anticipated changes), but what truly interests the author is conveying a sense of existential anguish, and he succeeds precisely through language, through a masterly command of adjectives and punctuation.
When, conversely, he turns to sketching characters and constructing dialogue, one witnesses a faltering in the narrative rhythm, which turns monotonous and redundant.

Why not read it? Certain passages are remarkably fine and address a highly topical theme: the disillusionment of contemporary Italy.
On the whole, however, the novel proves tedious and prolix.

The Shadow of the Hills