A book that my wife received
from one of my relatives some ten years or so – probably given to her because
back then her Italian wasn’t yet absolutely faultless like it is now and/or
because she had liked Novecento.
And I actually kind of liked
it, which came to me as a rather big surprise. Not so much because I don’t
normally like Baricco, but mostly because I’m often not too fond of the people
who cite him as one of their favourite authors (unless they are 16 or less, in
that case all, or at least some, is forgotten). Yes, I am an awful snob. I
honestly have to admit that spending an hour reading this story (defining it a
novella would be too much) was quite enjoyable. Yet, I don’t have that much to
say – yes, the book was nice enough, but has the literary weight of its
silkworms.
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