Novecento – Alessandro Baricco

Either at some point in his career Baricco could really write, or maybe this book was actually written by his neighbour, his brother-in-law, or a random dude he bumped into one day.

Novecento is a delightful theatrical monologue. The implausible story of its main character is an endearing depiction of everyone’s desire for security and the fear of the unknown (ironic for a protagonist who has spent his entire life at sea). The piano duel with Jelly Roll Morton is a work of art, as is the idea of naming the main character Danny Boodman T.D. Lemon Novecento. Unlike the book, Tornatore’s movie – despite remaining very faithful to Baricco’s work – is just a bit too much (not the first time for the director, in my opinion).

It’s just a big shame that something so well-written wasn’t followed by anything of a remotely similar calibre.

Middlesex – Jeffrey Eugenides

To all those who are quick to judge what male and female boundaries are and what gender roles have to be (no conditionals, clearly) : I so wish I could force you to read this book.

There is just so much in this novel: history (a great portrayal of the conflict between Turks and Greeks, but also of hippie culture in San Francisco), identity, race, growing-up and, clearly, gender. I loved reading, for once, a book with remarkably lofty ambitions that doesn’t just manage to fulfil those, but remains readable in the process.

Eugenides manages to write about this journey of self-discovery with delicate irony even in its most delicate pages.

And then why haven’t I read Eugenides’s two other novels? I have no idea...

White Teeth – Zadie Smtih

This is the book that started my love-hate relationship with Zadie Smith. Seriously, if you are 25 and have a degree in English literature, you should be worried about making ends meet, not getting stuck in a dead-end job and making sure that your flatmate has left you the money to buy the kitchen foil, instead at that age Zadie Smith had just finished writing one of the best British novels of the last 30 years!

Archie’s family is really interesting to begin with, but Samad’s is even better. Probably I’m saying this because I’m an immigrant myself and have questions about my roots, but the upbringing of Magid and Millat is somewhere between hilarious and astonishingly fascinating. And I can absolutely relate to Samad completely disregarding so many Bangladeshi customs yet constantly defending the memory of his supposedly glorious grandfather.

The last few pages, summarizing the lives of the main characters after the epic FutureMouse conference, give the reader hope for the future of Willesden/London/the UK/humanity as Alsana and Clara join their husbands at O’Connell, a place that in my mind is so seedy that it’s actually kind of charming.

The Tongue Set Free – Elias Canetti

Why do accomplished Eastern European writers often seem to have led the most incredible lives? Are their personal stories so extraordinary, or at they simply extraordinarily good at creating magic out of a fairly normal existence?

This book deserves to be read by everyone, but its size probably intimidates countless potential readers (also, the fact that I’ve never seen a book by Canetti in a British library is probably an obstacle to its dissemination).

The book is a wonderful description of a family (and a village, and a country) split between tradition and modernity, looking for a way to succeed in the 20^th century. Yet, for all the travels of Canetti’s family, my favourite pages remain the ones set in Bulgaria, where the narrator learns to read and where he plays a terrifyingly dangerous game with a hatchet.  

NW - Zadie Smith

Zadie Smith is one of those people I would love to hate. Young, beautiful, supremely talented.

NW is a delightfully quick read, although I did spend a good couple of hundred pages thinking that – while undeniably well-written – the book didn’t really seem to be of the same calibre of, say, White Teeth. Despite being intriguing, the two female protagonists are not exactly likeable (unlike Felix and, in his way, Nathan)  and at times seem excessively stereotyped.

As often happens with great writers, however, the last page is undeniably jaw-dropping. The kind of thing that makes me wish I was still living in North London.

Luckily, although I now live south of the river, I can still go to the Seven Stars for a pint after work – much like Keisha Blake, who seemed a lot nicer before changing her name to become Natalie.