Last Night in Twister River - John Irving

 

Reading three hefty books by the same author over the span of a couple of months is too much, and it's probably partly because of that that Last Night in Twisted River is my least favourite John Irving book so far. 

In part, it's also because the main character (Danny) is ultimately quite dull if compared to the plethora of interesting people he is surrounded by (obviously his dad and Ketchum, but also Six-pack Pam, Jane, and his mother). He's an observer, overly-attached to his father, and doesn't really seem particularly able to take decisions and make things happen (rather, things happen to him). 

Also, I didn't quite buy into his becoming a great writer - too much of his writing is too auto-biographical and not inventive enough to suggest that he's someone who can encounter worldwide success. In addition, once the "cowboy" finds the two Baciagalupo, the story immediately loses momentum, and the long wait for Lady Sky is not enough to prop up multiple flat chapters. 

Strong Motion - Jonathan Franzen

 

While I didn't like this book as much as The Corrections (hell, at times I think I won't ever like another 21st century American book as much as I liked The Corrections...) I was really surprised by how much I enjoyed Strong Motion and by the fact that it's not held in higher regard by critics. 

When compared to other books by Franzen, I feel that Strong Motion does religion better than Crossroads, environment better than Freedom, and historical digging better than Purity.  

At times the prose felt a bit too underdeveloped, but two passages that I felt stole the show were the initial confrontation between Reneé and reverend Stites and the crash course in the (economic) history of the United States by Louis's father. This is possibly a relatively raw and juvenile work, but really one that - in my humble opinion - deserves more attention. 

Half of a Yellow Sun - Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

 

I almost feel guilty to say that I didn't particularly like this book, considering the kind of reaction that it generated worldwide. Interestingly, the few negative opinions that I found online came from Nigerian readers. 

While I obviously agree with the main premises (Igbo people telling the stories of the impact of the Biafran War on their communities, and the fact that the world should remember the suffering it caused), I think the book ultimately lacks depth, chiefly because of how stereotypical so many characters looked. 

We have the armchair academic revolutionary (who oddly enough never talks about other revolutions - in the 1960s! - or about his academic interests), the well-meaning but out place white man, the houseboy who gets educated and reaches new heights (despite some very serious lows), a couple of cartoonish depiction of Western journalists, etc. 

The worst is the absolute perfection of Olanna, which I found rather tedious. I really wish we heard more from her twin, who to me was by far the most interesting character of the story. 

On top of that, while the context of the story was quite clearly the 1960s, I felt that the interpersonal dynamics between the main characters were much more current (in particular considering the fact that I suspect Nigeria didn't quite experience the sexual revolution of the 1960s in the same way as the Western world). 

Olive, Again - Elizabeth Strout

 

After the disappointment of My Name Is Lucy Barton I had fairly low expectations from this sequel to Olive Kitteridge. 

Turns out, if anything this book is actually better. As Olive ages, some traits of her character become sharper while others turn more mellow, chickens come home to roost in terms of her family relations and post (first) widowhood love life, and in general the anecdotes and stories that are intertwined in the book are always extremely profound (despite being covered over just a handful of pages). 

I actually had to remind myself multiple times that Strout was still (relatively) young when she wrote Olive, Again since she writes about the ageing process with such tact and credibility. And to be honest I probably enjoyed this book so much because Olive reminds me more and more of my cantankerous grandmother. 

Portrait in Sepia - Isabel Allende

 

Damn, how Allende bores me. Then again, she's sold millions of copies worldwide, has plenty of admirers and, when the ebook offer is limited (and at Southwark we're really down to a handful of potentially readable titles for me), beggars can't be choosers. 

I guess the overarching positive is that, by setting this story in the 19th century, she couldn't remind the readers of the importance of Salvador Allende, the dark years of the Pinochet dictatorship etc. 

What she could do though, was cover her novel with the standard romantic patina, the usual empowered rich heroines who defy odds (real or imaginary) to carve their own path, and the habitual love triangles and tangles. 

It's probably quite telling that the part of this story that I enjoyed the most was actually the one set in San Francisco and the interplay between immigrants of various races there - her always identical takes on Chile and its idiosyncrasies just leave me profoundly unmoved.  

A Legacy of Spies - John le Carré

 

And after complaining about Jonathan Coe, Ali Smith and Ian McEwan for their attempts to either bring their sagas full circle, or to write omni-comprehensive books to capture decades' worth of British history, here comes le Carré and swiftly succeeds where so many of my favourite contemporary British authors failed. 

Granted, it may be an easy exercise for a brilliant writer to play on his readers' nostalgia, to largely repeat plot devices that worked for literally dozens of his novels before, and to essentially spend half of his time making reference to his previous novels. 

Yet, this is a superb way to settle the unanswered questions from The Spy Who Came from the Cold and to add another further layer to George Smiley while painting him as considerably less unblemished than in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

The Seventh Function of Language - Laurent Binet

 

Having read Perspective(s), and having found it a fairly pleasant easy read, I decided to read The Seventh Function of Language because it is meant to be Binet's "magnum opus". 

I do realize it sounds ever so slightly stereotypical, but this pseudo-intellectual French novel is pompous, vainglorious, pretentious and, ultimately, plain bad. 

It's probably written so that people who like to think of themselves as erudite can giggle as they sip their port in front of their fireplace because they've just read a name that they recognize and can feel all smug about it (you've heard of Derrida, then?!? Bravo!). 

Also, my heartfelt congratulations to the author for the plain characterization of every single French intellectual of the second half of the 20th century. Over hundreds of pages I didn't manage to learn anything new about this people (and I don't know much about them, to be frank) as they are portrayed with less depth than what one would find in A Very Short Introduction to Literary Theory by Oxford University Press. 

No matter how trite is to read of Foucault as "the great bald man", it pales in comparison to the references to Camille Paglia (like her or not, she may deserve something more than just being referred to as "Cruella DeVil") or the cameo of a certain Judith - who doesn't have a second name, unfortunately, but is generally referred to as "the lesbian" (unfortunately there can't be any doubt as to who said Judith is, and I think labelling one of the greatest living American thinkers by her sexuality is something that no remotely intelligent people to the left of Trump can do). 

So to conclude: well done Binet, you've managed to stir in me the same hatred for a book that I felt for The Da Vinci Code. 

Red Pill - Hari Kunzru

 

For once, I actually picked up a hard copy book from the Southwark Library (mostly out of surprise for seeing a couple of Kunzru titles in a library that is otherwise not crazily well-stocked, and that's obviously an understatement). 

Unfortunately this was my least-favourite Hari Kunzru novel. The dystopian present setting plus mental breakdown reminded me a bit too much of a relatively disappointing Paul Auster novel. 

I also thought that the autobiographical writing was one of the great problems with wanna-be writers, but ultimately there are too many aspects of Red Pill that appear too reflective of Kunrzu's life. I just hope for his own sake he's a bit happier than this literary alter-ego of his. 

The Lock-Up - John Banville

 

Why did I read another John Banville detective story after being recently bitterly disappointed by a John Banville detective story? Chiefly because I think John Banville is one of the greatest contemporary writers and wanted to give him another chance, and because I am almost out of readable titles from the Southwark eLibrary. 

Sadly, if at all possible, I enjoyed The Lock-Up even less than I enjoyed Snow. The reason for that is essentially that, in this one, in addition to the eternally meddling Catholic church (duh) the reader also gets a wonderful peek into the world of former German Nazis and their dodgy collaborations with a state of Israel in its infancy. 

And as a matter of fact, a couple of weeks after finishing this book I don't remember much about it, other than the general feeling of "duh-ness"...

My Name Is Lucy Barton - Elizabeth Strout

 

Out of the - now limited - range of titles that the Southwark eLibrary offers these days, there are a few Lucy Barton books. I have tried not to read them in too quick a succession, and it's largely proved the be the right call. 

While Strout remains a great story-teller, the feelings she leaves me with are always the same (even when her plots are different). The problem is that after a while the returns diminish, and the above-mentioned feelings get diluted. I was mind-blown by Strout's prose the first time I read one of her books, now I just read them as a pleasant intermission between books that I find either more engaging or more substantial. 

I also have to admit that one of the reasons why I didn't particularly enjoy this book is my inability to understand a character who has such a troubled relationship with her mom because, like all good Italian kids, I love my mamma. 

Perspective(s) - Laurent Binet

My boss gave me this book as she believes I can read French well and easily. That's a lie, at least partially. It had been years since I had last read anything more than a page in the language, and being able to read a whole book was a great ego-boost. Sure, being familiar with the setting helped, but I’m still rather happy to have read a whole novel in my (non-existing) fourth language.

Before moving on to what I liked about it, let me mention two things that I wasn’t entirely sold on, in the most classic of “feedback sandwiches”.

1. The premise: I cannot suspend my belief enough to buy into the author finding these letters in an antiques shop. They wouldn’t be just “yellowed” with time, they would be falling to pieces. They also wouldn’t offer so complete an account (also: what conspirators save their entire correspondence?!?). I do realize it’s a bit unfair of me to compare a good book like this one to one of the greatest works of the 20th century, but in Il Nome della Rosa Umberto Eco frames everything so much better, openly admitting that he had to do a lot of further research and put in much guesswork in order to fill the huge gaps left by the sources he had stumbled upon.

2. Anachronisms: a lot of things went over my head because my French is what it is, but at times I felt like 16th century Italians wouldn’t really talk/write like that. Often this was just a feeling of mine, but at times it felt more tangible (like when Maria writes that she wouldn’t want to run away from Florence like a “bohémienne”)

Having said that, I loved the characterization of Vasari. I find him unlikeable, but he steals the show. And the many snide comments about other artists perfectly highlight how he (and his biases – positive and negative) influenced the way in which I, and the world in general, think about the art of the period. Michelangelo is the one I could have done without, as I think it’s a bit of an easy escamotage to have the most known name in the story act as the Deus ex machina pretty much raiding Florence from Rome.

The book’s biggest success for me is the way in which it made me long for Florence. It perfectly captures the spirit of the city (and often of the time) in what is probably the most sincere declaration of literary love for the Italian Renaissance that I’ve come across since reading Ali Smith’s How To Be Both almost a decade ago.

La Ricreazione E' Finita - Dario Ferrari

I got this book thinking it'd be a (reasonably) pleasant light read that would leave no lasting memory. Said assumption was motivated by the synopsis on the novel's jacket presenting the main character as a symbol of the generation of the pseudo-promising pseudo-young pseudo-intellectuals that fill the Italian universities on precarious contracts. So something that was bound to resonate with me, but also something that I've heard so much about that was quite unlikely to find this book particularly interesting and novel. 

Clearly, I was in for a big surprise. The sections on the beginning of the protagonist's doctorate are pleasant and fresh (and his web of relationships made me think of Eshkol Nevo's World Cup Wishes), but the detailed story of the fictional writer/terrorist that he ends up researching is something that absolutely steals the scene. 

Sure, I could have done without some things (I would have loved for the main character to also interact with some non-Italians in Paris - man, do my people ever leave their country, even when they cross its borders?!? - and his infatuation for the pretty younger girl in the second half of the book leaves a lot to be desired), but the final pages, with a twist that I definitely did not see coming, make up for any  minor shortcoming. 

The World According to Garp - John Irving

 

What a book! 

The World According to Garp is a beautifully written (and at times laugh out loud funny) book about, well, the world: sex (consensual and not) and sexuality are the obvious themes, but in the epic family history there is so much space for love (often misplaced, misunderstood and misguided, but still love) and loss (the chapter after the car accident, where at the end the readers realize that their attention was fully devoted to the survivors without feeling the absence of one voice, contains some of the most hauntingly dramatic passages I've ever read). 

Despite the fact that my main literary advisor - yes, my mum... - told me to read pretty much every John Irving book straight away, I'll try to pace myself with him in the upcoming months as I don't want to overdo it and forget how much I loved this novel. 

The Bluest Eye - Toni Morrison

I have read quite a bit of Toni Morrison recently and, as often happens when I read multiple books by one author over a short period of time, the returns were diminishing. 

The Bluest Eye probably ended up being my least favourite Toni Morrison novel, which is a shame as so many of the themes it covers are - quite clearly - absolutely topical. Yet, the fact that at no point in this book there is a glimmer of hope, and also the fact that the instances of (small amounts of) happiness - which I think are quite common in childhood, regardless of the level of deprivation - are few and far between made the reading hard for me. Add to that the fact that, because of the way in which the novel is framed, the reader ultimately knows what to expect from the very beginning, and you ultimately have a rather unsatisfying book, at least from my own point of view. 

The narrating voice(s) are interesting and - at times at least - self-critical to a degree, which ultimately made me feel rather bad as a human being (not a good thing per se, but actually quite good in the grand scheme of things, obviously...). 

Red Sorghum - Mo Yan

 

I had meant to read this book since discovering years ago a beautiful collection of short stories by Mo Yan. 

Red Sorghum ended up being very much in line with what I expected. My mother said she found it a Chinese version of Doctor Zhivago, but in all honesty I enjoyed this a fair deal more than Pasternak's book. 

A number of things were obviously "lost in translation" for me: the heroic tone of many tales, the frequent repetition of words, idioms and plot twists, and also the characters' sentimental dynamics. Yet, it brought to life a period of Chinese history that I had read about at length from a historical point of view in a way that I had not experienced before, and that to me is rather commendable. 

The Heart Goes Last - Margaret Atwood

I guess when you publish with the speed of Margaret Atwood (though I wonder how much of that speed is cause by publishers' pressure to get as much out of her as possible while she's still alive!) every now and again you hit a small bump in the road. 

This is obviously not a bad book. I don't think Margaret Atwood would be capable of writing a bad book (famous last words?!?), but this is really just alright. For all the death and violence around, it's not enough to make the reader terrified of what kind of future awaits us. And the attempts at humour are simply not funny enough. 

The pretty sappy final couple of chapters are also something I could have done without. The "no harm done + happily ever after with a hint of faint surprise" really left me unconvinced. 

A Long Petal of the Sea - Isabel Allende

 

Granted, I only read this book because of the dearth of other available titles from Southwark's ebook library at the time, but damn this was bad...

Pretty much every book I've ever read by Allende brings in her uncle Salvador, which I actually find quite frustrating after a while. One thing is to do it in an autobiographical tale like Paula, but doing it here feels just like a cheap trick to get people to say "oh, yes, I know that guy" (a feeling that then most people vaguely familiar with 1973 Chile will experience again at the multiple mentions of Neruda and Victor Jara). 

Mini-rant aside, for me this book read just like a melodrama aimed at a 19th century audience - everything was theatrical and pseudo-poetic. Of all the things that this novel attempts to cover, the only passages that I found (vaguely) interesting were the ones covering the escape from Barcelona at the end of the Spanish Civil War. On the plus side, at least it was a quick read...

The Night Manager - John le Carré

Like with a little black dress, I guess you can never go wrong with a vintage le Carré. And to think of the snobbish look of our librarian when I donated my copy of The Russia House...

For me The Night Manager ranks a bit below Tinker, Tailor, Soldier Spy and Agent Running in the Field, but it remains a heck of a story. The troubled Pine is one of the most entertaining spies (well, is he a spy or a volunteer?!?) that I've ever come across, and seeing him struggle with his own conscience is absolutely gripping. 

Yet, it's Roper that steals the show. A villain who is always in plain sight and at the centre of the action, not a Palpatine-like figure in the hazy background, he undoubtedly elevates the novel. 

And one is left to marvel at how well some of  le Carré's books - including this - have aged. 

La Malnata - Beatrice Salvioni

And - finally! - a recent Italian book that I actually enjoyed. 

Maybe (actually, surely) not a work of art that is going to land its young author the Nobel prize, but hey at least it's a ray of light in the rather dark landscape of Italian literature. 

La Malnata is the story of two young girls in Fascist Italy. Written in a dry style that at times reminds one of Fenoglio, it features a plethora of secondary characters that are more or less developed (and more or less monolithic), but the two protagonists are neatly thought-out and brought to life. 

It is all a bit predictable, but I can live with that as Salvioni, unlike many of her contemporaries who know how to write (and just don't have any interesting ideas), doesn't seem to be madly in love with herself and allows her prose to roll quite freely. 

Recitatif - Toni Morrison

Is this just a short story, or does it count as a book if you consider Zadie Smith's intro? 

Either way, this is not something that left a permanent mark on me, probably because I didn't spend most of the book wondering which character was black and which was white, as Toni Morrison intended. And that's a huge limitation of mine, obviously, but very often - no matter what an author tells me to imagine! - characters in my head have extremely vague features (so much so, that at times for me Twyla is white, and other times Roberta is the white one, at times they are both white, and at times neither one of them is). 

Also, I most likely can't get into something that can be read over the span of an hour or two (short stories, novellas, etc.) as by the time I begin to find my stride is time to close the book. 

The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath

A novel that I meant to read for ages, and one that I only just recently got around to reading. 

On the one hand, it remains a poignantly moving book, one in which - despite not being able to identify with the main character at all, at least in my case - the reader truly comes to care for the narrator and wishes her a smoother future than her present. 

On the other hand, however, I am ashamed to admit that it's a novel whose plot I found, ultimately, forgettable: mixed in my head with what I know of Sylvia Plath's own life, I actually had to look it up on Wikipedia to remind myself of Esther's personal history and her love life. 

Hag-Seed - Margaret Atwood

Frankly, I would have never believed that a contemporary revision of Shakespeare's Tempest (with all its meta aspects) would have been such a hit with me. 

Instead, man did I enjoy this book. Theatre in prisons is something that has fascinated me since Caesars Must Die by the Taviani brothers. Plus, the wider setting reminded me of Bob Smith's The Boy Who Loved Shakespeare, just in a fictionalized way. 

And I do love, in this case, a revenge against petty career-advancing characters. Add to this the fact that, for once, I was able to see Margaret Atwood in all her quirky humour, and you end up with a book that I enjoyed well beyond my expectations. 

A Prayer for Owen Meany - John Irving

An almost great American novel. Which is both high praise and highly frustrating. 

What makes it great is the eponymous protagonist, his relationship with the family of the narrator, and the chapters set in school and the New England backdrop. 

What doesn't make it great is the dull narrator (and the decision to dedicate so many pages to his contemporary life), the allegorical/metaphorical/mystical parts (just not my thing), and the fact that the ominous presence of the Vietnam War in the background has worked better for other authors (Auster, for instance). 

And from what my mom was telling me of John Irving I was expecting more fireworks in the plot, but this is probably one of his (relatively) sober novels. 

Capolinea Malaussène - Daniel Pennac

I spent months waiting for this book. Not an "edge of your seat" sort of wait, just a "I reserved it, but it'll take months before my library actually lends it to me" kind of wait. 

And it wasn't worth it. I thought that its predecessor (and in essence, the first instalment of this two-part novel) was arguably the best Pennac book I had ever read: wacky, but in touch with contemporary issues and trends, an interesting portrayal of the criminal underworld and a rather realistic generational conflict. 

This book still tries to have all of that, but with much diminished wackiness it just doesn't deliver. And if one removes so many of the comic aspects of Pennac, at that point all is left is a crime novel that really cannot match in any way, shape or form the best in the genre. 

Also: can a single contemporary writer close the circle of a multi-book story successfully? Pennac, Veronesi, Ali Smith, Coe (just the first four who come to mind)? Only Margaret Atwood has been able to write a sequel that left me completely satisfied based on recent memory. 

Terre Rare - Sandro Veronesi

I wonder if Veronesi thought that he would never be able to replicate the success of Caos Calmo, so he just decided to milk its main character for an unnecessary sequel. 

Mum liked this book. I respectfully disagree, at least partially. To me it's closer to the latest book by Ammaniti than it is to Caos Calmo. Same Rome, same need to throw in one of the supposed most beautiful women in Italy, same improbable (though often rather dull) encounters with minor characters. 

So, I'd class it as a harmless quick read, but would never say I liked it. 

Actually, one thing that I can truthfully and openly say that I did NOT like is the return (resurrection?) of the main character's sister-in-law, with unfinished business and unfulfilled love and career aspirations. I'd take the Roman chav that our protagonist dumps on the road any day of the week (maybe not as a life companion, but surely as a fictional character). 

The Emperor's Babe - Bernardine Evaristo

Well, if you want to (re)write history, might as well go all the way. Seriously. 

I'm still not a major fan of Evaristo, but it is undeniable that she does breathe fresh air in contemporary literature. It's obviously not just the way in which she tackles race (in this case with a plot that is ultimately not so hard to believe as I initially envisaged), but also the panache and style (pulling off a verse novel is not exactly easy, I'd assume). 

So while she might not be my favourite contemporary British writer, I will most likely keep on reading her books as and when they become available at the Southwark library. 

Oro Puro - Fabio Genovesi

 Yet another typical display of contemporary Italian literature: 

- Sappy love story. Check

- Pure good-hearted main character. Check

- Loss leading to shallow pseudo-philosophical approach to life. Check

This one also has the added bonus of taking place against the backdrop of one of the most significant voyages of discovery in history (perhaps the most significant?) and - lo and behold! - attempts to give a voice to the voiceless and tells the story from the viewpoint of the most junior member of the crew. 

All in all, really rather pathetic. 

The Indian Clerk - David Leavitt

A book by David Leavitt and my cousins' visit managed to accomplish the impossible: they made me miss Cambridge (though a Cambridge that I've never witnessed, with Bertrand Russell and Wittgenstein, fancy rooms in Trinity and semi-secret societies meeting to drink and discuss the meaning of life and the future of mankind). 

But the story of Ramanujan is obviously more than the tale of a genius and his life in Cambridge. It's the tale of his emigration, of his unfulfilled hopes and desires, of personal and institutional racism and, ultimately, of deep and profound unhappiness. 

It obviously also helps that, even after hundreds of pages of this fictionalized biography, his figure remains shrouded in mystery (actually, arguably this book adds to the mythical aura of the mathematician). 

 

Thus Bad Begins - Javier Marías

 

Marías came to do a talk at LSE shortly after Thus Bad Begins some seven years ago. I didn't feel the desperate urge to buy the book and get it signed at the end (instead opting for A Heart So White) and I'm happy to report that my hunch was correct. 

Perfectly flowing prose can only take you so far when the mysteries and secrets surrounding the characters are not particularly interesting (and the final revelations not excessively surprising). The fact that I read this book right after reading another underwhelming one with a much anticipated suicide at the centre (A Little Life) also didn't help. 

Or maybe I just prefer my own kind of Mediterranean fascists, as I often find Italian books discussing the prolonged influence of our regime on our current society much more interesting. 

The Biographer's Tale - Antonia S. Byatt

 

The grass is always greener on the other side, and the books left behind in the lobby of the next door building are always better than the ones left in our lobby. Luckily, every now and again I go and check what the neighbours' stock is like, and a couple of weeks ago there I found this book. 

Most of the time, Byatt would be quite low on my priority list, but I wanted to read a hard copy book for once and this looked like the most approachable out of the pile I had on my bedside table. 

And what a surprising pleasure this was. Having just gone to a - mediocre - Tate exhibition of the Rossettis I was prepared for a deep-dive into the life stories of 19th century figures that I didn't really like interlinked with contemporary life stories of fictional characters that I didn't find too interesting, much like in Possession. 

Instead, what I got was a deep-dive into the life stories of 19th century figures that I liked, interlinked with contemporary life stories of fictional characters that I found very interesting. And that made me happy. 

Public Library and Other Stories - Ali Smith

 

This book made me realize that, perhaps, I should reduce my consumption of Ali Smith books (something that was bound to happen sooner or later anyway, as I've read most of them by now). 

The wordplay and critical observations that would have blown me away a couple of years ago have now lost their spark. 

And this short story collection to me felt haphazardly put together, while the idea of alternating the stories with short personal recollections of (often nostalgically long gone) libraries was probably one of the least original that Smith ever came up with. 

Still, we agree that libraries should play a crucial role in our society, but - having worked in one for the last six years - I definitely believe we should really revolutionize how we think of the spaces and their purpose. 

La Vita Intima - Niccolò Ammaniti

Ammaniti wrote some good books. A couple of them might even be among the best ones out of the contemporary Italian canon, but this isn't one of them. 

Much of the book is a light and stress-free read that doesn't trouble (but also doesn't give much to think about to) the reader. The end leaps past the banal and edges dangerously close to the brutally uninspired. 

Maria Cristina, the book's main character, is essentially presented as an empty vessel, and over the course of the novel she doesn't really develop as much as the author would perhaps like us to believe. It might be that this is a man writing about what is essentially the archetype of a desperate housewife of the Italian ruling class. Or it might just be that the character is inherently dull and the book is full of trivialities (something that Ammaniti in most of his other books appears to avoid). 

 

The Penelopiad - Margaret Atwood

 

Here Atwood and I are two roads that diverge into the woods. That's because we see Penelope differently: while we agree that being smart and ordinary-looking should be way more than enough to earn universal respect and recognition, I believe that she was given that long before Atwood's novella. 

Or perhaps the way in which I always thought of Penelope is different from the way most people (or at least most men) thought of her through the centuries, which is a distinct possibility. 

Still, looking at this through the prospective of the twelve maids that are supposedly so dear to Atwood might have been a more interesting approach (at least for me). Instead, the maids here are reduced to a - sometimes incongruous - chorus, and I think ultimately even Atwood doesn't do them justice. 

And if I was to retell the Odyssey from a different perspective for the umpteenth time, I'd probably be looking at the events through Argos's eyes. Seriously. 

Italiana - Giuseppe Catozzella

 

I'm an Italian historian who long ago stopped reading academic books on Italian history. 

This isn't an academic book, but rather a (thinly) fictionalized account of the life of Italy's most prominent female brigand around the time of the country's unification. It's commendable in its intent, being pretty much the only novel touching on the topic of brigandage that I can think of (well, there are the Roman passages of The Count of Montecristo, but they probably don't count!). 

Yet, the retelling of a historical tale is both praiseworthy and the most significant weakness of the novel. Despite the unique angle given to the book by the lives of these outlaws, Catozzella is hardly the first person to look at the poverty of the Italian South in the late 19th century, and many others have done it better. 

Happy I read it, but as far as books on outlaws are concerned, The True History of the Kelly Gang is in another league. 

His Illegal Self - Peter Carey

 

This book was OK, which is a pretty sad statement for anything written by Peter Carey, but hey, you can't write something Booker-worthy every time. 

His Illegal Self  has a wild and pyrotechnic beginning, but once the actions shifts to Australia and the secrets of Che's "mom" are uncovered (a bit late to cause significant shockwaves) the book appears to settle, which is bizarre considering that I was expecting Carey to be - quite literally - at home there. 

And the ragtag Australian hippies are on the whole rather boring (or maybe it's just the nature of their anachronistically alternative lifestyle that doesn't attract me anymore?) and quite caricatural, which makes for many dull passages spent discussing the present and future of a former stray cat.  

The Testaments - Margaret Atwood

 

Perhaps I should go back and read The Handmaid's Tale, as I recall liking it, but not as much as its sequel. 

From what I can recall, the former is a book about persecution, and the latter is a book about an escape. Both have tortuous attempts at rebellion at their heart, but the first novel is an agonizing one in which every page adds another layer of cruelty, while the second one is an action-packed page turner. 

In The Testaments Atwood doesn't seem to dwell as much on human cruelty - that was already explored more than enough in The Handmaid's Tale and often a quick hint to something allows even forgetful readers like myself to remember the sensation of oppression left by the first book. 

All in all, The Testaments is most likely the more enjoyable read, but The Handmaid's Tale is the better book. 

Omero, Iliade - Alessandro Baricco

 

The most significant thing about this book was finding an old copy of it in my parents' library, with a message from my mom to my grandfather - one of those wise uneducated people who studied until he was 12 before starting to work in the fields but still had time to learn the first book of the Iliad by heart. 

This book is a truly commendable effort, making Homer accessible to a wider public, retelling the story in prose, and focusing on the human dynamics (so much so that the gods are completely left out as an editorial decision). 

Compared to Christa Wolf, obviously, it pales in terms of literary significance, but in terms of bringing Greek mythology "to the Italian masses" I really think this book is second to none and, because of that, it should be applauded. 

La Verita' Su Tutto - Vanni Santoni

 

I find Santoni to be one of the few beacons of light in the desolate landscape of Italian contemporary literature. He knows how to write, and he does actually have something to write about, while most other celebrated authors appear only able to do one or the other. 

That said, while this book covers a number of topics that other readers might find fascinating, I find most things related to spirituality rather uninteresting (perhaps because I have no spirit in the first place?!?). This unfortunately meant that my reactions to the book were lukewarm. 

In addition, I didn't quite understand the premise (with a journalist interviewing the main character, a device that then gets dropped and picked up apparently at random in a couple of odd places in the book) and was rather surprised to see so many pages dedicated to the initial stages of the main character's "career" and then see her meteoric rise to stardom covered (and explained) oh ever so briefly.  

The Noise of Time - Julian Barnes

 

Of all the "pet topics" that authors have, I find Barnes's interest in the idiosyncrasies of the Soviet system to be particularly compelling. 

Yet, unlike the reviewers of The Observer I didn't find The Noise of Time to be a masterpiece, but merely a good book. While the first few pages, with Shostakovich waiting for his arrest by spending the night next to the lift by his flat, blew me away, the rest of the book felt relatively flat. 

Perhaps Soviet Russia was just not the best setting for Barnes to showcase his brilliant humour?

Blonde Roots - Bernardine Evaristo

 

In all honesty, I wouldn't have read this book had it not been for the fact that the Southwark libraries app grants access to many of Evaristo's books since she won the Booker Prize. 

On the plus side, it made me realize that the "good" but not "one in a generation" kind of authors very rarely invent something from scratch and that, in this case, Colson Whitehead must have borrowed quite a bit from Blonde Roots for his The Underground Railroad (or maybe it's an incredible coincidence that both main characters take an actual underground railroad to try to escape slavery?). 

On the down side, I never really found myself gripped by this book. 

One interesting thing though: despite the frequent reminders that the slaves are white and the slave-owners black, I struggled to picture them as such and my mental image of Doris often switched between that of a white and a black woman. Talk about the power of ingrained perceptions and experience...

Snow - John Banville

 

Running out of readable ebooks on the Southwark libraries app (add some new decent titles, please!) I decided to give Banville's attempt to write a detective story a go. 

And I spent most of my time thinking (and sometimes saying aloud) "John Banville, come on, since when have you become a banal author reverting to all the most obvious plot twists used in airport paperbacks?!?". 

Seriously, rarely a writer has disappointed me as much as Banville did with this book. It had them all: the detective with the troubled love life, the manipulated and mentally unstable black sheep of the family, the abusive Catholic priests (I'm really, really far from being even just remotely a fan of the Catholic Church, but this is one of the three easiest and most annoying tropes around), etc. 

And not a single actual surprising moment through the book. Never. 

Le Perfezioni - Vincenzo Latronico

 

This was one of my frequent attempts to engage with Italian literature by going through the shortlists of the country's biggest literary prizes. 

As usual, I despair for the present and future of (just?) Italian literature. I can  picture authors stopping to re-read a sentence and spending 10 self-congratulatory minutes to remind themselves of how wonderful their prose is, and how imaginative their plot twists are, when in reality they are "meh" at the very, very best. 

But this is a book that I absolutely loved to detest. The main characters are obnoxious, the kind of Italians abroad that I hate with passion, those who leave the country but can't think of learning a new language besides basic rudiments, who are completely unable to break the umbilical chord that links them to the motherland, who anyway will always be able to count upon family wealth as and when needed and who only really have meaningful interactions - no matter where they are - with people born within 500 km of their native village. 

If Latronico's book is an ironic critique of this kind of people, I might read something else by him, but I actually doubt he had any intention of criticizing his characters or their way to see the world. 

Agent Running in the Field - John le Carré

 

A book that I read in part in digital form, and in part as a hard copy at our local library while my younger daughter was busy reading (well, actually just leafing through, she's three!) dozens of Bluey, Spot and - much to my chagrin - Peppa Pig books. 

Le Carré is one of those authors who make me wonder whether one can be both a great writer and have near universal reach. Very few can, and I believe le Carré belongs in that list. 

Sure, the ending of the book feels rushed and underexplored, but we're talking about an author who, at the tender age of 88, was probably feeling the pressure of time more than others (and he might have a point, as he died soon after the publication of this book). 

Apparently Agent Running in the Field has been described by many as le Carré's Brexit novel, which is obviously reductive, but I did love his decision to air out his anger and frustration with that whole bonkers project: while the likes of Ali Smith and Ian McEwan are preaching to the choir when they criticize Brexit, I suspect le Carré's readership covers a much broader socio-political spectrum and so his move was a lot bolder and riskier (though again, at 88 he probably didn't have too much to lose). 

Leviathan - Paul Auster

 

With my most sincere apologies to 4 3 2 1 , I think this is the Paul Auster novel to end all Paul Auster novels. 

It is the first Auster's novel I had heard of (possibly the first that my parents read?), but, not being as ubiquitous in all second-hand bookshops as The New York Trilogy, also one that I hadn't touched until the Westminster library kindly gave me access to the e-book. 

Besides the traditional Auster trademarks (chance, mystery, fortuitous crossings of metaphorical paths) what particularly struck me of this novel is how relevant to today's world it still feels. Perhaps, after all, America and its identity (crisis) hasn't changed that much since the end of the Cold War...

Il Colibrì - Sandro Veronesi

 

Granted, my parents had warned me (I had just forgotten about it, but hey...), yet I was expecting more from Veronesi. Not sooo much more, but at least a little more. 

This book is light as its titular hummingbird. And I don't mean that as a good thing. The long protracted story of a pretty uninteresting main character left me rather untouched. The sappy final scenes of love, forgiveness and hope openly annoyed me. 

At most, this is the sort of book that I think one should read over the span of a couple of afternoons at the beach. Except that I don't like beaches, so I don't think this book really has any space in my life, and will have very little space in my memory. 

La Traversata Notturna - Andrea Canobbio

 

I guess that when you don't have many ideas, you can write an autobiographical book. 

I guess that when you aren't the best of writers, you can borrow from other authors' approaches and styles (hello Perec!). 

And I guess that when you have interesting sources and artefacts (the family heirlooms pictured in the book are often the most interesting parts), you might as well use them. 

This is actually an OK book; I'm glad I've read it as it's an interesting perspective on a city - Turin - that I know quite well. I just think that it really shouldn't be considered one of the best Italian books of 2022, but since that's apparently the case, mala tempora currunt, 

Cassandra - Christa Wolf

Why did I have to spend years being taught - and being made to absolutely hate - ancient Greek grammar, instead of spending more time actually learning their (hi)stories?

Seriously, had a teacher ever thought of making me read this book (instead of memorizing μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ Πηληϊάδεω Ἀχιλῆος and repeating it like a parrot!) I would have actually quickly grown to like - and later most likely to love - Greek mythology. 

Instead, it took my 36 years to get closer to the life, troubles, thoughts and loves of some of the most fascinating characters ever produced by the human imagination. My daughters (aged 3 and 6 now) ask to be read stories from a children's version of The Odyssey before bed and won't have to study ancient Greek unless they really, really want to - who knows how that will work out!

Life: A User's Manual - Georges Perec

 

One of my dad's favourite books, and one that he has re-read recently. 

While I can understand why it was popular "back then", I really don't think it has aged that well. The idea of short stories and anecdotes held together by a red thread (in this case the building itself and some of the people who live/have lived there) has been done a lot, and I find many contemporary authors' approaches (Strout above all) much better. 

Style above everything - much like with many French writers of the period - works wonders for many readers, just not me in this case. 

Moon Palace - Paul Auster

 

The one time in my life I had to request a renewal of a library book loan (it took me more than two weeks to read it!) and it was a Paul Auster novel...

Testament to the fact that we had a lot going on (family holidays, in part, and a huge kitchen refurb waiting for us back home), but also to the fact that this wasn't my favourite Auster book. 

Had it not been for the fact that I've read most of his other works, I would have probably enjoyed Moon Palace a lot more, but (un?)fortunately I have read most of his other works, and had already come across much better renditions of his traditional "cultured and troubled Columbia student is confused and tossed around by chance and mysterious fortuitous encounters". 

Lessons - Ian McEwan

 

Now here's an author (like Ali Smith) who seems more unable than me to let Brexit go, and this is saying a lot. 

And here's an author (like Ali Smith) who probably tries to pack too much in too few pages. The story of Roland and Miss Cornell, for me, would have been enough. The persistence of his memory of her throughout his life, and her unexpected brief return, would have made this a great novel. 

Turning the book into a brief history of Britain from WWII to today as seen through the eyes of one person, on the other hand, was stretching it a bit. Even when I find myself agreeing with most of McEwan's points about British politics and society, I don't really see the need to read about them. They are not surprising, they are not particularly engaging. Not for me at the very least. 

A shorter novel on the frenzy, trauma, and confusion caused (?) by Miss Cornell would have ranked among McEwan's finest. Instead, I consider this a great "intro to the current British divisions" for my mum, along the lines of some of Ali Smith's recent books and Jonathan Coe's Middle England. With the added bonus of having large passages set in Suffolk (where we were coincidentally holidaying as I was reading the book) and mentioning Mick Jagger's stint as an LSE student.