Germinal – Émile Zola

One of the books that I inherited from my grandparents, and one which my grandad had loved dearly (that is, before he started mashing all his 19^th century greats together and think of how badly Raskolnikov had behaved with the Karamazov brothers, but luckily Valjean had managed to sort everything out).

130 years after its publication, the prose of Germinal is not really cutting-edge (but was that ever the case for a feuilleton?), yet the content remains extremely poignant and, sadly, current (the story of the 33 Chilean miners hasn’t been completely forgotten, at least not by me). There is no need to point out how deep the book is, or how one cannot really understand the rise of the left in Europe without reading works like this – what struck me the most, however, was the wonderfully touching depiction of the daily lives of the French miners (I believe Beppe Fenoglio and Nuto Revelli would then follow in Zola’s footsteps when they looked at the Piedmontese poor in the 20^th century).

And the fact that, in my version of the book, all the names were Italianized was so very sweetly old-school…

Summer Book – Tove Jansson

A book that I’ve bought (again at the Blackheath Book Sale!) because my former English teacher recommended it to me.

The good things I can say of this are: it’s cute, it’s an easy and relaxing summer read, it reminded me of Pippi Longstocking, and it’s so much better than the Winter Book (then again, hardly the literary accomplishment of a lifetime).

And there are ultimately no bad things I can say about this book, other than the fact that it’s “cute” (which I earlier listed as a positive, but it’s undeniably also a big limitation) and that I really wish it had some sort of development rather than being ultimately a collection of free-standing short-stories. Or, yet again, maybe I’m just not deep and poetic (or, crucially in this case, a woman – as I believe a book like this appeals more to a female audience).

But one thing did blow my mind: back in the day those extremely sweet characters who lived in close contact with nature found it perfectly ok to dump their rubbish in the sea. Oh the times they-are-a-changing (very rightfully!)…

The Body of Jonah Boyd – David Leavitt

A book that my mom got from the BookCrossing stand in Turin airport (such a nice idea, and yet, at least in that location, so neglected…) and that she left with me after her last trip.

Having only read particularly “gay” books by Leavitt, I was surprised by how “hetero” this one was. While not of the same literary calibre of The Secret Language of Cranes, The Body of Jonah Boyd is an extremely pleasant read.

I really liked it because it’s Jewish, it’s about academia, and most of all because it’s sub-urban. Yet, I didn’t find it mind-blowing chiefly because I think books about writers are often (even if indirectly) a bit too self-congratulatory – but the title, and the fact that Jonah Boyd is not murdered and left in a ditch as I assumed (or that his body is not sculpted like that of a Greek demi-god and the subject of the desire of the author), is pure genius. 

Oscar and Lucinda – Peter Carey

I had been waiting to read a “real” book by Peter Carey ever since reading his minor Bliss and absolutely loving it – luckily, as is often the case, the Amnesty International Book Sale in Blackheath had the solution to this problem (for 1 £…).

I liked the book, but in all honesty I’m not quite sure it’s Pulitzer-worthy (then again, reading the shortlisted titles, I’m also quite positive Chatwin’s Utz wouldn’t have been a good candidate either) – I found it a bit long (well, unsurprising given the size…), could have done without much of the background stories of Oscar and Lucinda’s families, probably the gambling world doesn’t attract me too much anyway, and I just didn’t get too excited by the big voyage of discovery in Australia.

The book does, however, have a number of great ideas, like the ways in which Oscar fights his phobia of the Ocean, the discovery (for me) of Prince Rupert’s Drops, and the transportation of the glass church, which reminded me of Fitzcarraldo and is a literary picture that many authors can spend an entire career waiting to develop. 

The Autobiography of Malcolm X – Malcolm X and Alex Haley

A book that was given to me as a Christmas gift by one of my closest friends and, despite my normal lack of enthusiasm for (auto)biographies (or even cinematic bio-pics), was actually a quality present.

Despite teaching 20^th century history, I didn’t know much about Malcolm X, so this book was quite eye-opening – I’m not going to debate up to what extent it truly reflects the man’s life (how could I?) but it surely does justice to his myth.

As I read it I kept thinking how much he would have despised me as a rich, white European who teaches on the history of Ghana or Pakistan by starting with the disclaimer “well, I’m a rich, white European” – would have I been the worse of the liberals? And would he have changed his mind after his Hajj

One thing that really struck me was the faith Malcolm X seemed to have in non-white leaders: Elijah Muhammad, Kwame Nkrumah, and even Mao are praised time and again, but, as far as I know, were quite far from being saints themselves (despite the fact that at the time of writing, in Nkrumah’s case, the temptation to identify him as the prototype of the enlightened African leader was quite clearly extremely tempting for everyone).

As I approached the autobiography, I expected its latter parts to be the most exciting ones, but I have to say the chapters I liked the most were probably the early ones, the ones on Detroit Red, the hustler, with his passion for jazz (and his encounters with all the big names of the time) and for swindling people.