Apparently there are still authors in Italy who a) know how to write, b) have something to say, c) don't spend every other page congratulating themselves for being "oh so very good and look how elaborate are my metaphors" (more on that, and on Nicola Lagioia, later). Seriosuly, the overlap between a) b) and c) is really rather minimal.
This is a book that my wise mother suggested, and it was - as often happens - a really good piece of advice. At the time I hadn't read such an enjoyable Italian book since Piperno's Il Fuoco Amico dei Ricordi, and I Fratelli Michelangelo might be partially responsible for my decision to have a road trip of sorts around Tuscany with my family in a few weeks.
I loved it because of the depth of the characters and the breadth of interests that Santoni quite clearly has, but it's also a book written by an author who is still a bit raw, or at least someone who quite clearly didn't know how to end an ohterwise remarkable novel.
Then again, when I was young an Italian rap band used to sing "who cares about being Zucchero [Italian singer with raspy voice, btw] when Joe Cocker is already around?", and one can definitely ask the same in this case: is there a point to a novel like this, when Franzen wrote The Corrections way before? I'd say there is, but plenty of people would probably disagree.
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