Klara and the Sun - Kazuo Ishiguro

  

Just because one wrote Never Let Me Go one doesn't necessarily need to write something that often reads like its rip-off. 

I guess dystopian novels sell, in particular in the current climate. And I guess once you win a Nobel prize you can pretty much do whatever you want. But in this case I'll do what I want too, and openly declare that I found Klara and the Sun to be as cold as its titular character, and I felt as detached from the plot and its twists as the Artificial Friend is detached from the reality around her (I wanted to like the novel, and Klara wants to understand and be part of the human world, but neither of us could).

The Thursday Murder Club - Richard Osman

  

Yes, I occasionally read contemporary best-sellers. They have their positives in general, chief among them they are so very easy to read. And this one has a positive in particular: I find its authors really extremely funny. 

As for the book, it was entertaining enough and funny enough, but nothing more. I guess I've been around - or heard my mom tell stories of - enough old-people homes and communities to be largely inocluated against these "endearing elderly". Even if they were belieavable, I surely wouldn't find them likeable. 

The one character I honestly do find endearing is Bogdan. Who would have thought: hard-working European builder who moved to the country ages ago and still feels like an outsider, and I liked him eh...

Niente di Vero - Veronica Raimo

 

Things that can happen only in Italy: winning the youth version of the biggest literary award in the country at the tender age of 44. I'm not claiming that everyone should be like me and consider themselves old by the time they are in their mid-20s, but damn I'd actually be offended if I was labelled as "young" in 8 years' time...

Things that can happen anywhere in the world: you write what is ultimately a collection of largely autobiographical anecdotes with very little originality but that everyone can relate to and suddenly yours is a book worth reading. Throw in a big award names on the book's cover, the name of a major author (Zerocalcare) saying that you are wonderfully funny, and plenty of people (including myself) will read your work. But that's somehow not enough to make a good book!

Cannery Row - John Steinbeck

 

 

In case I hadn't made it abundantly clear in the past, I am a sucker for American literature, and I am ultimately deeply in love with Steinbeck. Sure, deeply flawed macho macho man, and at times an ass to his friend Ed Ricketts (who is the not even remotely disguised Doc of the novel), but man was he a good writer. 

Cannery Row is in the mould of Tortilla Flat, perhaps a bit deeper and a bit less picaresque. It's one of those novels that - despite not being "great" - ultimately virtually everyone will like because of its sloppily well-intentioned characters, its stereotypically Californian setting, and the overall feeling that, one way or another, things will turn out alright and life will go on as usual.

The Scarlet Letter - Nathaniel Hawthorne

  

Being in Latin America at Christmas, surrounded by omnipresent religious references, I figured it was as good a chance as any to read The Scarlet Letter. 

As normally happens with 19th century novels, I was expecting to find it dated and hard to approach, but I was pleasantly surprised: the prose is light, the characters deep and the plot, ultimately, still highly relevant. 

Obviously, I felt that a number of passages showed too much sympathy for Dimmesdale and that it would have been so much better had this been written by a woman (you don't say!), but utimately the book was thought-provoking and current beyond my hopes and expectations.

54 - Wu Ming

  

Dad doesn't read as much as mum, and as such doesn't recommend nearly as much. Of the two books I read on his advice, I found one borderline unreadable and the other an incredible work that gave me a little bit of faith in Italian literature. This is the latter of the two. 

Wu Ming is a writing collective that doesn't seek celebrity. It seeks good writing, and man do they achieve it with 54. 

I was skeptical of a story involving Cary Grant (I didn't have a great experience with Stan Laurel in Triste, Solitario y Final and I think that affected me), but his plot was beautifully woven into the other parallel stories. Plus, I got enough hidden references to feel smug. 

And the stories of former partisans, fighters and comrades trying to come to terms with the post-war Italy they had contributed to create were full of pathos and unusual insights. 

Easily one of the best books I've read in 2022, and one that lifted my mood this last Christmas break.

Portnoy's Complaint - Philip Roth

  

And so what?

Philip Roth is one of my favourite authors, yet I had postponed reading Portony's Complaint for years. 

It didn't have the appeal of American Pastoral, or The Human Stain, or pretty much any other book by him. 

I start reading it with a "so what?" attitude, and it just didn't leave me. I didn't find it funny, I didn't find it shocking. I just found it so awfully boring (and, if anything, the complete and absorbing obsession with sex got to be a bit sad quite quickly).

The Comfort of Strangers - Ian McEwan

  

I often find myself surprised by how prolific a writer is Ian McEwan. And the more I read of his recent works, the more I am attracted to his more macabre past.

The Comfort of Strangers is bold, as it is ultimately a short novel about a death in Venice, but I believe Thomas Mann might have previously written something along those lines. 

Yet this Venice somehow appears even more plagued and insalubrious than Mann's, and despite knowing from the start that it's going to end badly, the reader is left caring for the main characters hoping that they make it out of their twisted predicament (though, as per the spoiler in the previous sentence, that doesn't quite happen).

La Ferocia - Nicola Lagioia

  

Well, let's be honest: I was bound to hate this book and to find reasons to hate it from the start, as I first heard it mentioned on the pointlessly pretentious podcast of a kid from my hometown, who was salivating at the thought of Lagioia's talent with words. 

Yes, Lagioia writes well. Yes, Lagioia knows it. But does he need to remind the reader about it with countless pages of heavy-handed metaphors? 

This book left me with nothing. I would have probably liked the story had it been written by someone not so completely in love with himself. Instead, I only have very vague recollections of the plot. 

Yet, I'm sure there'll be plenty of people who'll praise this novel because they feel like they have to. And the wonderful local podcaster is probably one of those. Here's to you "Radical Nik", may the world of vanity publishing allow you to establish yourself as the great author you are (but possibly next time you compare yourself to Don DeLillo, do it with a bit of irony...)!

Swing Time - Zadie Smith

  

Years ago, a colleague of mine carried Swing Time into work every single day for a whole term. I didn't know her then, and I assume that if she carried the same book around for three months she couldn't have been reading it. 

I later found out that she carried it around for so long because because she had loved Zadie Smith's other books, but found this one an absolute slog. 

Having finally read it, I can now officially agree with her. Swing Time has nothing of the brilliance of White Teeth, or even of NW. Yet, it's not an effortless uncommitted read like The Autograph Man, and I even liked On Beauty better than this. 

For me, this book was proof of the fact that good (actually, often great) writing can't save a bad novel, and I don't really care about the bickering of dancing friends who have an unresolved rivalry since their school years.

I Fratelli Michelangelo - Vanni Santoni

 

 

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.