Tatuaje – Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

Ah, Pepe Carvalho! The secret agent every man wishes he could be: CIA-trained, communist-inspired and food-loving.

What makes him different from everyone else isn’t so much his professional skills (Maigret’s got them too), or the gourmet recipes Montalbán inserts in his novels (Camilleri – and his aptly named Commissario Montalbano – do an equally good, if not even better, job of that), or the intriguing plots he has to unravel.

What makes his stories so great is his entourage: Charo, the prostitute he loves (and from whom he is loved back), Biscuter, his side-kick, helper and chef, and Bromuro, the shoeshiner/informer who is terrified of the government’s apparent schemes to put bromide (bromuro in Spanish) in the Spanish waters to placate the population’s sexual drive.

This is the second book in which the figure of Pepe Carvalho appears, but it’s the first time we see his entourage, and because of this it gets the nod as my favourite Carvalho story.

I almost forgot a crucial part. Carvalho doesn’t use wood for his fireplace: he burns books, something that makes every reader cringe and probably simultaneously bow in admiration at the boldness of the gesture.

The Tin Drum – Günter Grass

One of the greatest novels I’ve ever read. Too bad it’s one book too long (I didn’t really see much of a point in the chapters on the early Cold War in Europe, probably because I find that to be a rather boring period).

Personally, I think the most significant feature of the novel is the self-portrayal of the narrator, Oskar, a character the reader initially wants to hug and cuddle, and later ends up distrusting and stepping away from. Oskar is simultaneously acute enough to decide to stop growing when he is a 3-year old disgusted by the world, and selfishly childish enough to cause the death of his two potential fathers. When I came to the realization he was responsible for the two deaths (something that I would have probably denied, had it not been for the fact that Oskar highlights it, at times with remorse, at times as a matter of fact) I was almost in tears.

Because of its size, and despite its undeniable qualities, this is a book that I had to read over the span of a week. Prolonging the anxiety for that long was really rather intense and this was a book that ended up affecting my mood throughout those days.

Non So Niente di Te – Paola Mastrocola

This is a book that I found so bad I actually had to write to its author. After a couple of years I feel a bit sorry for her and the angry letter that she received, but I really don’t think she should have discussed something she didn’t know: the life of an Italian boy as a student in the university where I work (and where I studied) and later as a Ph.D. candidate at Stanford.

She talks about this genius, able to revolutionize the world of economics as we know it, and how he is only able to study because of the support he receives from the (unaware) parents of another friend. Sure, that might happen in the humanities, but if you are hailed as the next Paul Krugman by the time you are 22, I’m pretty sure Stanford (or another token world-class university) will find a way to keep you afloat for the length of your Ph.D.

In my letter I told the author of this work of offensive banality that it was the sort of lie that her generation can tell itself when it tries to justify and rationalize the fact that some of the brightest young intellects of the country have left for good (“sure, they’re gone, but luckily we were able to help them leaving in the first place” whereas many are leaving, without their help, from the awfulness that their generation has created). They talk about an Italian brain drain. I don’t consider myself a brain, I consider myself a hard-worker who wanted to leave the country and its people. I managed to get a fair bit of funding for my Ph.D., but, before that, I washed dishes and scrubbed pots 6 nights a week for 3 years to pay for my BA. And a book like this is just an insult to me and those like me (although it is bound to be a great read for most of my parents’ generation – luckily not for my mother and father).

Il Giardino dei Finzi-Contini – Giorgio Bassani

I am starting to feel sorry for whoever ends up reading this blog and its countless comments on books about... Italian Fascism! Apologies, but those bleak years did prove to be an incredible source of inspiration for a generation, or two, of Italian authors...

At least this book isn’t really about the Resistance, or anti-Fascism, but rather about the impact that the regime had on the everyday life of rich Jewish people who had no particular interest in fighting it. Being narrated by a character outside the family, it idolizes the lives of the Finzi-Contini. The book is completely coated in a melancholic patina, something that I really envy because I don’t think I will have the same bittersweet memories of my fruitless Italian juvenile love (my memories of her are just plain bitter).

For me, one noticeable quality of this book is Bassani’s ability to ultimately leave politics aside: he managed to write a book on the impact of Fascism without actually discussing Fascism, with a story that remains within the boundaries of the villa of the Finzi-Contini, only occasionally venturing to a couple of other locations in the town of Ferrara.

For anyone familiar with Italian cinema, I was quite surprised by the fact that Vittorio De Sica directed the (fairly unsatisfactory) movie inspired by the book, as the story would have been perfect, absolutely perfect, for a movie by the Taviani brothers.