The Child in Time – Ian McEwan

And this is two almost-consecutive books by McEwan. Unlike with Amsterdam, I am really quite sure The Child in Time is one of the greatest books of the last few decades. There is no point in saying that it’s beautifully written, with McEwan it can be taken for granted. But this book is one of the most touching ones I’ve ever read.

I was almost in tears during the initial supermarket scene, desperately reading to get to the happy ending of the section as soon as possible. Except that the happy ending never came. And then the changing dynamics between Stephen and Julie, with the reader unable to take sides because both of them appear to be – sadly – reasonable, and most of all because who could make a judgement in such a situation?

But Stephen ends up realizing his childhood dream and driving a train. And the actual driver figures things out before Stephen – or any reader – does, and I think that’s just poetry.

Il Partigiano Johnny – Beppe Fenoglio

This blog is making me realize how many books I’ve read about the Italian Resistance and, in general, about the fight against Fascism. This book, however, is probably my favourite one of all. And I am not just talking about books on anti-Fascism, I am talking about all the books ever written all over the world.

Of course, even in this case, I am dreadfully biased. The book is all set in the towns and on the hills where I’ve grown up. But, even as I try to be remotely objective about it, I think it’s an absolute work of art: the prose, mixing Italian and English, is still innovative even after 50 years, Fenoglio weaves global history, local history, and personal histories (fictionalized or not) with an inimitable display of skills and even the smaller characters manage to leave a lasting impression in the minds of the readers.

And I might be naive, or simply in denial, but I don’t think the ending is so obvious as most people take it to be.

Amsterdam – Ian McEwan

I often wonder whether McEwan is the greatest writer of his generation. Books like Atonement and Child in Time make me think he could be (although I generally end up concluding that he isn’t), but others like Amsterdam make me wonder whether he might have enjoyed more success than he deserved.

The book is, like all others by McEwan, about rich people, charming rich people (at least, they are not always awesome charming rich people). In this book, the author seems to have a preference for one of his two main characters: the musician, whose brilliant symphony is (or might be?) destroyed by his former old-time friend (who, on the other hand, is criticized for the absolute lack of morality of some of his actions). The final showdown between the two is farcical and makes me question the literary value of the novel.

Sure, this is a quick read and written beautifully like all of McEwan’s books – but the annoying protagonists make the awful Tory minister appear likeable and defendable. And I don’t like that.

The Lover – Marguerite Duras

The shortness of this novel prevented me from establishing any actual connection with either the narrator or her lover. I have never felt the (post-colonial?) pull of South-East Asia, and this is probably one of the reasons why this book ultimately didn’t speak to me. Or maybe I’m just immune to the romanticized memories of a sad little rich girl.

This book has had no impact whatsoever on me. That said, I’m glad I’ve read it, but that’s probably because it took little more than an hour of my (not particularly) precious time.

Cristo Si E’ Fermato a Eboli – Carlo Levi

And who would have thought – another one of the books that I’ve read while pretending to do some ground-breaking historical research. Carlo Levi was a true renaissance man in some grim times in Italy: a supremely talented writer, a great (if too often underrated) painter, and a key figure in the development of anti-Fascism.

This is a book in which nothing, or at least close to nothing, happens. But it’s a short one, so I didn’t mind its uneventfulness, and it’s also a perfect depiction of both life in such an isolated place as Gagliano (Aliano in real life) and of life in internal exile. And the title of the book is one of the best ones I’ve ever come across: Gagliano is so remote that not even Christ has ever managed to reach it (an idiomatic Italian expression) as he stopped in the town of Eboli, a few kilometres away.