Another book by Calvino that is typically
Calvinoesque: a cute love story, absurd situations, and the constant feeling
that the author is just playing around with the reader, worried more about
style and form than anything else.
Like often happens with Calvino, I got lost in
his Pindaric flights. I assume that, to a very large extent, that’s exactly
what the author wanted. That, however, is not exactly what I want in a book.
I’m just too grounded in reality and I want a plot that, for intricate that it
might be, is still logic and plausible.
Granted, realizing that he was playing around
with the titles of the various chapters/short stories was actually quite fun,
even for me. Yet, I wish Calvino spent a little less time patting himself on
his own shoulders and congratulating himself on being such a gifted writer. Don’t
get me wrong: he was undoubtedly incredibly gifted, I would just like to see a
more immediate deep plot rather than an absolute perfect form (and, in this
case, a perfect frame from the book).
No comments:
Post a Comment