Un Giorno di Fuoco – Beppe Fenoglio

And this is a collection of short stories that means a lot to me but, I have to recognize, probably will mean nothing to most non-Italian readers (save maybe a few people from Southern France whose experiences and family histories may have been rather similar).

But, refusing to leave my bias aside, I think that Fenoglio might have been the best Italian writer of the 20^th century (surely Il Partigiano Johnny and Una Questione Privata deserve to be considered among the 50 most significant Italian books published over the last 100 years). True, his characters smoke a lot and might have values that are at times anachronistic and at times awfully politically incorrect by today’s standard, but Fenoglio manages to bring to life the common wisdom of the peasantry and their daily problems like no other author, and the short stories of Un Giorno di Fuoco (many of which have nothing to do with Resistance and anti-fascism) are no exceptions. 

According to Queeney – Beryl Bainbridge

Whenever one doesn’t know what to read, s/he can be sure that there is a short Bainbridge novel somewhere.

While not exactly the greatest book ever written (probably the sentence that I use most often in this blog…), According to Queeney is an interesting portrayal of Dr Johnson and his circle – and definitely something that one needs to read as s/he tries to act like a true Londoner (or a Southwark resident).

The start of the book is a bit bland, and the lack of unstable young women is somewhat disappointing for a Bainbridge novel (both Queeney and Mrs Thrale seem a bit too proper to me), but it does pick-up after their trip to France, and Queeney’s letters at the end of each chapter are a much welcome change in style every few pages. 

Dubliners – James Joyce

How I remember my high-school classmates spending months and months reading (?!?) this collection of short stories and pretending that it was the most meaningful book they had ever read. Having read it over a lazy weekend I have a couple of thoughts (both for them and for whoever happens to read this blog):

1.       I understand it was cool to say that one was reading Joyce as a teenager, but, seriously, spending 2 months carrying it around feels a bit excessive – maybe my classmates needed to show off?

2.       I understand it was cool to say Dubliners was the greatest book they had read (perhaps it was factually true, as for a number of them it could have been their first book not written by Roald Dahl), but, honestly, what’s the point?

I have the feeling this is something that you can only appreciate if you’re Irish (probably like you can only appreciate Fenoglio’s short stories if you’re Italian), but if you aren’t – well, to restate my thought above, what’s the point?

The Lost World – Arthur Conan Doyle

When I was a kid I read some of Sherlock Holmes’s stories and kind of liked them, but to me The Lost World was of an entirely different calibre.

Maybe it’s because this week I’ll be going to Crystal Palace to check out the 19^th century dinosaur sculptures, or maybe because the novel reminded me of my youthful love for those creatures, but I loved The Lost World with passion. Sure, the characters are all so representative of authentic 19^th century English values (something with which I am still very much struggling in post-referendum Britain), and many of these features are just offensive by today’s standards (nowadays you don’t quite assert your masculinity by firing guns, at least in theory, and women are allowed on adventurous expeditions, at least at times), but the four heroes all remain charming in their own ways.

I suspect that the book falls into the “young adults” category – and I’m sadly out of it now! – but one thing that really surprised me is that, at the end of the day, it’s really not dated…

The Humans – Matt Haig

And a second entry from my book club’s list (!) – it’s not that I loved this book, not even that I hated it like Norwegian Wood, it’s just that, unlike most of the books so far, it was actually quite enjoyable.

Other than many fairly trite observations about the weird ways of the humans, the novel is quite nice in its exploration of human bonds and emotions. If only Gulliver had actually killed himself there would probably be something more to say about the novel, but alas he didn’t (yes, I’m a horrible person…)

Enduring Love – Ian McEwan

Having read so many of McEwan’s books, it’s nice to be able to smugly say “I like his earlier stuff better”. To me Enduring Love falls in between the aforementioned “earlier stuff” and some of his more recent fairly dull works.

Enduring Love is an interesting read, and one that makes me surely really happy to be out of “real” academia (“you aren’t even ripe yet” said the fox to the grapes?!?). The couple’s dynamics seem remarkably plausible (although I would personally like a bit more support for my partner!) –Joe’s bizarre entry in the English underworld a lot less so (like in Saturday, to me it looks as if McEwan doesn’t really know what he’s talking about).

Most of all, this book actually made me realize why so many of McEwan’s character (including Joe) are in the end rather unlikeable – they’re not just posh, they’re just so obscenely judgemental you want to punch them in the face… 

Tortilla Flat – John Steinbeck

I think Grapes of Wrath is one of the 10 greatest novels of the 20^th century. And Of Mice and Men – despite being imposed upon all the young students in the English-speaking world – is not that far off. But man was it great and refreshing to read a Steinbeck book about poor people that are, erm, happy…

Danny and his friends are just wonderful. They make do with what little they have and love each other (and often manifest this love by beating the hell out of each other, which is always great). So many of the stories and anecdotes are delightfully touching (starting with the young coronel, but also the story of the pirate and how this changes everyone else in the group).

And the last few pages are just perfectly fitting. All good things must come to an end, and one might as well go out with a bang, a big party, and a massive tumble. 

Taras Bulba – Nicolaj Gogol

I had to read some Gogol at some point. But seriously, what the hell?

Sure, I’m not Russian so I can’t understand, but I’m normally all up for epic stories of national courage (even Russian courage, in the case of Michael Strogoff…) but isn’t Taras Bulba (not written in italics because I’m referring to the character and not to the novel) a bit much?

Sure, your son has switched sides (a bit too easily also), but killing him in battle without feeling at least a wee bit emotional sounds, well, heartless. At a certain point even his comrades tell Taras that he might want to take it down a notch but he continues to be an almost perfect killing machine.

One would hope that at least while he’s being burned he would stop. But he doesn’t. He keeps on yelling at his Cossacks. A true leader. And possibly an idiot. 

Forest of the Pygmies – Isabel Allende

Having read and loved Paula I thought I would give an absolutely different kind of Allende novel a chance. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.

It probably has to do with how old and boring I already am, but novels for young adults “these days” usually can’t match the quality and intensity of the old ones (Salgari beats Allende, Molnar beats Grossman, etc.). The three-headed monster is hopefully more a reference to Cerberus than to the Trinity, but its mystery is surely not particularly imaginative (anyone who has ever wondered why Clark Kent is never in the same room as Superman is bound to figure out the riddle quite soon).

Sure, Allende is commendable in her constant desire to point out that all cultures have to be not just respected but also appreciated, but in this book she says that crocodiles are amphibians and I just can’t take that! 

Fever Pitch – Nick Hornby

I had this book for years, read bits and pieces of it, and know the movie by heart, but I wanted to read it cover to cover at a time in which I was watching some hard-nosed yet inspirational football, and that’s exactly what’s happening with Italy at the Euros right now (that is, until Germany just totally destroys us on Saturday).

The book is undoubtedly well-written and humorous, and so many of the points that Hornby makes clearly echo with most football fans (even people who, like me, have been to the stadium only a few times). I loved reading of his mom leaving him post-it notes with the results of late games when he was a kid (my dad did the same with me, and I still remember his Juventus-Torino 5-0 with a Vialli hat-trick and goals by Ferrara and Ravanelli) and finding out that Attilio Lombardo was indeed also famous in England for his hairline (or lack thereof) more than for his – absolutely unquestionable – skills.

If only there was an actual plot (like there is in the movie) to join the anecdotes together, this would be an excellent novel (well, maybe that’s a stretch), but instead it just remains, erm, anecdotal – and I don’t really love this sort of books as more often than not they’re just way too easy to read and relate to (which is slightly counterintuitive, I do realize). And as a Juve supporter, I suffered every time Hornby described a hooligan charge in the 70’s and early 80’s, because I knew  that at some point it would end up with the Heysel disaster…