Frank Zappa's bicycle, tried, experimented, played, first violin but also wind instrument and various percussion in a TV-broadcasted concert that entered history for those plucked and ticked sounds, screeching and smiling, always surprising.

Julio Cortazar's bicycle, double frame and front basket, a cat popping out and books flying here and there, and that prohibition – "Bicycles forbidden" – because "in banks and shops worldwide, nobody gives a damn if someone enters with a cabbage under their arm or a toucan", "but as soon as a person enters with a bicycle everyone gets agitated" and "the vehicle is violently expelled onto the street".

Salvador Dalì's bicycle, a Graziella, in Paris, at a show's inauguration, wearing a long coat, holding a book in hand and a painting under his arm, and the beauty is that he couldn't pedal.

Marcel Duchamp's bicycle, not the original, which was lost, but the other one, the "Bicycle Wheel" – a wheel, a fork, a stool - exhibited at MoMA in New York, born not as a pastime or stress-reliever, but as a form of imitation of a three-legged, acrobatic and affectionate cat.

Alfred Jarry's bicycle, light, elegant, refined, with racing handlebars and without fenders and lanterns, purchased by signing but not paying, thus accumulating blackberries and fines, notices and accusations, but capable of covering distances and keeping appointments, and inspiring stories and tales.

All bicycles, not just those of artists, live, stop, go to paradise. And there they continue, like a second life, or their life is eternal, turning, playing, carousel-ing. And there they tell their stories. Red bicycles and rusty bicycles, racing bicycles and travel bicycles, escape bicycles and children's bicycles, also the bicycle of that gentle cyclist who "made the wheels spin around the world" and claims that "there's always a secret after every curve", also Martina's bicycle that in the wicker-covered basket hid ten hand grenades.

"The Bicycle Paradise": there, sooner or later, all bicycles arrive. Giovanni Casalegno told their stories for Ediciclo (208 pages, 16 euros), in a book from a year ago, but without date, without deadline, without urgency. Because paradise can wait. And so can bicycles.