Filology, Paleography,
and the Joy of Chasing Meaning.
“I don’t follow schools. I follow the manuscript.”
My fascination with language began long before my first line of code or manuscript analysis. I chose the Liceo Classico Rosmini in Domodossola out of a desire to understand language at its source—how it shapes thought, culture, and ultimately, identity. For me, Greek and Latin weren’t just subjects; they were passports to deciphering the codes of the past.
This obsession with signs, symbols, and meaning led me to the Scuola di Paleografia e Filologia Musicale at Pavia, where I graduated cum laude in musicology. There, I studied not only music as a system of sounds, but as a language with its own grammar, history, and set of secrets waiting to be uncovered. Paleography and philology became my tools for interpreting the past—questioning sources, doubting certainties, and always searching for what’s hidden beneath the obvious.
To me, there is no “universal language”—only codes, each bound by its own rules, shaped by its era and geography. Whether in music, writing, or programming, the journey is always the same: learning to read between the lines.
Filology, paleography, and a relentless distrust of easy truths: this is my daily grind. I don’t simply read sources—I interrogate them. Every manuscript, every signature, every blot of ink is a suspect until proven authentic. The thrill is not in confirming what everyone already believes, but in uncovering what lies beneath layers of convention and myth.
At the School of Musical Paleography and Philology, I learned that no document speaks for itself. Authenticity is not a label, it’s a verdict reached through doubt, skepticism, and—above all—method. My approach is forensic: I scrutinize handwriting, analyze inks, trace forgeries, and let the evidence lead the way. In research, as in life, the greatest enemy is certainty.
The past is not a safe deposit box; it’s a crime scene. The work of a philologist is never done, because every answer only leads to more (and better) questions.
Teaching is not a one-way broadcast. It’s translation: from the complex to the accessible, from theory to understanding, from the written page to real-world experience.
My career as a teacher and support specialist is built on the belief that every student speaks a different language—sometimes literally, always metaphorically. From music to art history, from the classics to computer science, I strive to make knowledge accessible without watering it down.
Inclusion is not a slogan. It means adapting content and method for each person, whether with differentiated tasks, alternative assessments, or just a dose of empathy. The real lesson? Complexity isn’t the enemy. It’s the invitation to connect.
Beyond the Score
From Manuscripts to MIDI—Editing, Revising, and Reimagining Music
Four worlds, one method: connect the dots, question the myths, follow the evidence.
From fragile folios to flawless files: my work is where tradition meets technology.
I don’t just play or study music—I dissect it. I restore what time tried to erase, reimagine what others took for granted, and turn the invisible logic behind the notes into something you can see, hear, and challenge. Revision is not about making things prettier; it’s about making them true. Whether I’m untangling a composer’s original intentions from centuries of editorial “creativity,” or transforming a handwritten score into digital code, the goal remains the same: bring clarity to the chaos.
Manuscripts, MIDI files, first editions, and forgery reports: all are tools for asking the only question that matters—what did the author (really) mean? The answer, as always, is hiding in the details.
Coding is not about instructing machines—it’s about translating human intention into logic, syntax, and a bit of well-placed skepticism.
My relationship with programming is the natural extension of my love for ancient languages and codes. BASIC, Pascal, C++, Java: to me, each language is a new script to decipher, a fresh opportunity to chase meaning and avoid misunderstanding—this time, with compilers instead of dictionaries.
I question assumptions, track origins, and test every solution—because a misplaced bracket is just a modern version of a scribal slip. The history of programming languages is, after all, just another chapter in the story of how humans try (and often fail) to make themselves understood.
Publications
Essays, Books, Articles
Mapping the Landscape of Ideas
I write to question, not to confirm; to map uncharted territories of thought, not to reinforce what is already mapped.
From peer-reviewed papers on Mozart forgeries and ink analysis, to essays in musicology, and books that ruffle more than a few feathers—each work is another attempt to bring clarity to complexity. Footnotes are my natural habitat, and sources are my compass. When I write, I invite the reader to doubt with me—and, occasionally, to laugh at the absurdity of academic dogma.
Whether it's a monograph, a magazine article, or a blog post, every text is a fieldwork in the wildlands of ideas. The bibliography? It's the evidence trail. The conclusion? Always provisional.
Languages Spoken, Codes Written
You can’t chase truth in a single language. The map is always incomplete. My journey winds through Italian, English, French, German, and Russian, with a few detours in Greek and Latin—and, when needed, the occasional musical or programming language.
I read sources in the original, write code in half a dozen syntaxes, and translate stubborn silence into meaning, one word (or bracket) at a time.
Why so many languages? Because every idea, like every manuscript, hides its truth in a different corner. And because—let’s face it—sometimes the most interesting secrets simply refuse to be translated.
Open to Collaboration, Dialogue, and Debate.
Research isn’t a solitary quest—it’s a relay. If you’ve read this far, you’re probably a fellow skeptic, a code-breaker, or at least someone with a healthy allergy to clichés.
Whether you’re a musicologist, a developer, a student, or just a curious mind who likes to pick apart stories, manuscripts, or algorithms—write to me. Disagreement is welcome. Certainties are optional.
Contact me