Over lunch with a bunch of professors who just arrived in Motovun for a summer school in architecture, Bruno Zevi comes up in conversation. “Ah,” I perk up at once, “his book was very important to me while I was studying architecture!” Indeed, I inherited Zevi’s Storia dell’architettura moderna (1950) from my father. “The book must still be in my library,” I add blissfully. “Softbound,” I continue dreamily as if to myself, “the cover is crimson red with a white box containing the book’s title and author’s name in black lettering.” When I return home, I search for the historian’s name on my website. Not a trace. Then I feverishly search through my library for the book I remember so vividly after so many years. Not a trace, once again. “Bruno Zevi,” I end up mumbling to myself dejectedly, “a figment of my own demented imagination…”