I tell stories which contain stories (which contain other stories). Sometimes over a stage. Sometimes on video. Sometimes in a book. The Orlando Furioso by Ludovico Ariosto is a book so full of fantasy and inspiration that it seems written not by a man, but by a horde of goblins and fairies. It is, at the same time, a book full of logic, of reason, of sparkling lucidity. It is a torrential, labyrinthine, shimmering book. It is in some ways, one could say, impossible to tell: that is impossible to trap in a theatrical narrative. Yet the challenge attracted me irresistibly. It was worth a try, in my opinion. It was worth the risk of being swept away by the stream, scattered in the labyrinth, dazzled by its iridescence. You judge the outcome.