One, No One and One Hundred Thousand

Reads more like an essay in metaphysics, the ramblings of a stranger who we become accustomed to, and even start to root for. Although it can feel a bit eclectic at time (the paragraph-long sentences certainly don't help), there are gems that compel-if not force-you to close the book and ruminate. The giddy feeling of encountering fresh ideas and perspectives pervades its pages. It’s the kind of book that reveals new layers of meaning at different stages of life—an intellectually demanding but deeply rewarding read.

TL,DR: I didn't get it. I know that as an Italian, especially as a southern Italian, I'm supposed to like Pirandello, but... I was lukewarm after reading “Il fu Mattia Pascal” and now fully disappointed by this book, so I need to probably accept that Pirandello is not my thing.
I found this book pompous and self important. The author takes a simple idea and puts on it a veneer of importance that isn't justified and some pretended philosophical depth. Then he goes on telling a story where very little happens and so the page have to be filled by pontificating, trying to convince us how original and meaningful all this construction is, but in reality, it isn't.