Measuring the World - Daniel Kehlmann

 

Considering what I have just written about Juli Zhe, I had to double-check the nationality of Kehlmann, and decided that I'll consider him Austrian and not German for the sake of my coherence (though I wonder how he feels, considering his upbringing between the two countries?). 

This is a book that was suggested to me by a former basketball teammate of mine, and I read it with fairly low expectations. And my fairly low expectations were ultimately met. Yes, the book is well-written and the stories of Humboldt and Gauss are interesting and fascinating. However, I already knew a bit about them, and I guess that bit was enough. 

Still, I'll probably give it to one of my relatives who often talks about a young Gauss discovering the formula to calculate the sum of consecutive positive integer numbers. 

Crossroads - Jonathan Franzen

  

Hmm...

I feel like I would have liked this book had it not been for the fact that it's all around a religious community. A nice grassroots lay organization with a similar structure and ethos, yes. A religious community, no. 

I'm probably just an awful human being, but hey. 

I would have probably had more time for Russ had he not been a priest, and would have probably found him less boring and petty. Also, had he not worked at a church called First Reformed, I wouldn't have pictured him as a 1970s Ethan Hawke

Gli Ospiti - Marco Magini

  

Marco Magini studied at LSE at the same time as me, though I never met him. It clearly was my mum the one who found out about his existence, his publications, and the fact that he was doing a book presentation at the Italian Cultural Institute in London during one of her visits. 

Of his two books, Gli Ospiti was the one that attracted me the most in principle, but ended up being a fairly average read. The plot is not exactly full of surprises, there are some fairly banal interactions between the main characters, and the whole thing feels (more than) a bit, well, orientalistic. 

Yet, he seems to have the intellectual integrity not to consider himself an actual writer, and in that case, as far as amateur authors are concerned, he is quite clearly among the talented ones who have valuable ideas to share. Also, he seems to admit that nobody really cared about ecology during the Gezi Park protests, which I find quite sad (that's not to say that I like Erdogan! I would have just liked the protesters to genuinely care about both their country and the environment...).

Machines Like Me - Ian McEwan

 

Old-school Ian McEwan beats 2019 Ian McEwan hands down. Next time he writes a sci-fi book, perhaps he could invent a time machine that reminds him of what a good storyteller he was (and most likely can still be). 

This love triangle between two humans and a machine felt as emotionally void as a Tamagotchi's request for affection, which I do realize might have been the whole point, but for me it makes for very uninspiring reading. 

Then again, I was never going to be sold on a book like this, as I can't recollect a single novel with human-like androids/machines/robots that I actually, honestly and thoroughly enjoyed (Never Let Me Go was the one that I appreciated the most, but even there saying that I really liked it would be a bit of a stretch).

Unterleuten - Juli Zhe

 

The joy of having a) a well-stocked e-library, and b) a former student helper with a cultural profile that very few undergraduates can match. I don't think I've ever read a German book besides the canonical 20th century classics, because I liked them, and Young Werther, because why not...

I was surprised by how easy I found it to get into the rhythm of the book, despite what is for me an unusual setting. Possibly, if I knew something more about German literature or the reality of the former DDR I could have found more to criticize, but instead, with my limited knowledge, I found this book to be the equivalent of a good Franzen novel in old Europe, with generational clashes, contemporary issues and historical animosities that are grippling and relatable. 

Olive Ketteridge - Elizabeth Strout

  

Before reading my first book by Elizabeth Strout, every time I looked at the cover page of one of her works I would immediately mentally dismiss it as "most likely well-written chick-lit". Yes, I'm a macho macho man, and like many of us I'm very often wrong. In this case, I terribly, hopelessly, so very deeply wrong...

Strout is not just good, she's great. The way in which her short stories combine to make a touching novel is superb. And the fact that she makes the reader grow fond of an idiosyncratic and in many ways unlikeable character like Olive is impressive. 

And whoever decided to cast Frances McDormand for the TV series is an absolute genius, as she was born to play that role.

Indignation - Philip Roth

 

 

While desperately lacking elsewhere, the Southwark electronic library seems to have quite a few books by Roth, and so it gave me a chance to read some of his minor novels, which - in case hadn't come across from previous reviews - I generally find much, much better than Portnoy's Complaint. 

Indignation as a Jewish campus novel had at times a similar feel to passages of Auster's 4321 (minus the overambitiousness, obviously...) and for that I found it rather enjoyable. 

The problem, however, is that I find its time setting (the 1950s) rather dull and boring. Had it been set against the backdrop of the 1970s and the Vietnam War (instead of the Korean one) I would have probably appreciated it more. And another thing I struggled with was the narrator's declaration (later partially retracted) to be reporting from beyond the grave. That's where I normally suspend my suspension of disbelief, regardless of whether it's a book or a movie, just ask William Holden and his opening monologue in Sunset Boulevard for confirmation.

Come Fossi Solo - Marco Magini

  

Again, as far as amateur authors go, Magini is good. Actually, this book, his first, is arguably much more impressive than Gli Ospiti. 

For once, I liked the characterization of the novel's one real-life character (Dražen Erdemović) better than that of the fictional characters (the judge and the former Dutch soldier with PTSD). The last of the three for me lacked depth and the judge simply reminded me of Spencer Tracy in Judgement at Nuremberg. 

Dražen, on the other hand, stole the show for me. Magini's ability to re-create his life and emotions is remarkable. Most of all, for me it served as a great stimulus to read up on what happened in the aftermath of Srebrenica, and the fact that he was the only one to serve time for the atrocities defies belief.

Here I Am - Jonathan Safran Foer

  

To be honest, had it not been for the fact that this was one of the last few novels by authors that I consider readable that were available at the Southwark e-library, I probably wouldn't have read it. But it was there, and very little else was, so I took it out. 

This is not a work of art, not even close. Yet, it's suitably Jewish, humorous, self-deprecating, deep and reflective of our complex web of social relations that it ends up being pleasant company for a few days. Now, if only I could have managed not to constantly think of the Coen brothers' A Serious Man as I read it...

The Cockroach - Ian McEwan

  

McEwan has it in for Brexit even more than I do by the looks of it. He might not be originally "from the continent", but he does appear to be perplexed and saddened by his country's botched seppuku attempt. And to think that it was written in 2019, which now to me looks like a wonderfully heady period of friendship and stability. 

This is a light read if there ever was one. It's even funny - at times - when it's not trying too hard. I agree with the bottom line (Brexit is nuts, and why would anyone want it), but for a therapeutic laugh I'd always pick a column by Marina Hyde on top of a novella.

Seasonal Quartet - Ali Smith

 

Funnily enough, the Southwark electronic library has a e-copy of the first two books of the series, but I had to go to the actual library (exotic!) to get the hard copies of the last two. 

With hindsight, that was somewhat fitting, as I fell in love with Autumn and Winter, thinking of ways to write to Ali Smith to tell her how impressed I was with her decision to tackle events "in real time", take such a clear stand on so many social issues, and express (yet again) her love for Italy and Italian culture. 

Said love started to subside by Spring, and ultimately Summer left me rather unsatisfied. Much like had happened with Jonathan Coe's Middle England I felt that Smith couldn't quite manage to finish with a "bang" so, to avoid finishing with a "thud", she decided to finish with something that is safe and whose vibe (though - in her defense - not its details) is largely predictable. 

Also, that should teach me about reading four books from the same author in quick succession. I had grown tired of her writing style by the end, and I really wish that hadn't happened.

John Henry Days - Colson Whitehead

  

I find it funny that the Franzen quote on the cover of this book is actually an extract from a review in which he states that "John Henry Days is funny and wise and sumptuously written, but it's only rarely a page turner" (thanks Wikipedia!). I do realize it happens all the time, but still. 

But I actually liked John Henry Days in full and with few reservations: it might not be Whitehead's best book, but it deals with the American folk stories that I liked since seeing Disney's Johnny Appleseed as a child, offers some deep reflections on American society, but also the world of mass media and the ultimate, profound, loneliness of some people. 

Oddly enough, I did consider it a page turner at the end of the day.

La Solitudine dei Numeri Primi - Paolo Giordano

  

It all depends on how one approaches the book, I guess. 

Do you read it as the first work of an aspring young writer? In that case, it's full of promise, does an extremely good job of portraying aspects of the deep sorrows of the teenage years, and it is the kind of effortless read that deserves to be rewarded. 

Do you read it as one of the best books published in Italy? In that case you can't help but feel sorry for the state of Italian literature, wondering how on earth something so raw, with such a poor conclusion, and that focuses on feelings that the author (at 26) might not have experienced/understood can be received with such widespread acclaim.

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning - Alan Sillitoe

  

I read this novel as I had obviously enjoyed Sillitoe's Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner, liking its raw prose and its subject matter. 

The problem here is, clearly, that I still liked Sillitoe's raw prose, but the subject matter felt far less stimulating. The athletic exploits of a troubled teenager are much more interesting to me than the love troubles of a working-class young man whose life revolves aroud evenings at the pub. The fact that my already poor relationship with pub culture is now at an all-time low most likely didn't help. 

Still, I was glad to find a reference to bastards grinding you down that predated Margaret Atwood by almost three decades.

Talking It Over - Julian Barnes

  

I don't have much to add to what I wrote about Love, etc. as, after all, they are ultimately one and the same. 

If anything, Talking It Over made me appreciate Love, etc. even more, as the sequel was so well-written that one could read just that as a stand-alone novel without missing out on any of the dynamics between the three main characters and one gets a really good idea of what had happened 10 years before anyway. 

Then again, I'm obviously very happy to have read Talking It Over too, for the obvious reasons, like the fact that Julian Barnes is an incredible writer whose wit always (or at the very least most of the times!) shines through his work.

The Bookshop - Penelope Fitzgerald

  

Well, this book was presented to me as a novel of female empowerment. For me, however, it was mostly about the hopelessness of the idea of setting up and running a bookshop (something that I was already largely aware of, thanks to Dylan Moran and Black Books) and the pettiness of people in a small village (something I had plenty of first-hand knowledge).

On the whole, though, I chiefly found it quite banal, and to the reviewer who, according to Wikipedia, talked about this book as coming out of "the Beryl Bainbridge school of anguished women's fiction" I'd tell that this novel has nothing to do with the best (or even the slightly above average) works of Bainbridge.

Girl, Woman, Other - Bernardine Evaristo

  

I'm definitely glad I've read this book. I most definitely enjoyed it. I also definitely didn't love it. 

I feel that there were many sections in which the theme of intersectionality was pushed in too academic a way. From that point of view, a number of other authors (academic and not strictly speaking so) would have been more appealing to me. 

On the other hand, when the characters are presented and interact in what feels - to me - like a more free-flowing way, then the book turns into the equivalent of a good (if not as humourous) Zadie Smith novel, and I'm definitely more captivated. 

Or at least I think so (a line that at the end of the day should precede every single post on this blog).

Due Vite - Emanuele Trevi

  

Yet another case in which I disagreed deeply with the jury of Italy's biggest literary award. 

I guess nothing but good should be said of dead people, so I won't speculate on the lives and merits of Trevi's departed friends. However, it felt as if this book was more about Trevi himself than a tribute to his lost friends. It's about the deep dissatisfactions of intellectual life and the small circles in which these people move, but at the end of the day it left me with very little besides the echo of the cries of an author who wants the world to validate his importance and that of his friends.

Il Fuoco Amico dei Ricordi - Alessandro Piperno

  

For once an Italian book (actually two, as Persecuzione and Inseparabili are also stand-alone novels) that I truly and unapologetically loved. And also, incredibly, one that I didn't find provincial in comparison to works of similar scope and goals by a number of great American writers. 

The troubles of the Pontecorvos are painfully plausible, the sort of thing that can destroy a family, but also the sort of thing that a group like theirs has the tools to potentially overcome. Except that they don't, and as the situation gets out of control in the first book and a number of issues remain unsolved in the second one, Piperno paints a family picture that reminds the reader of a Mike Leigh movie ("Secrets and lies! We're all in pain! Why can't we share our pain?"). 

A Jewish family saga was always going to be a hit with me, and to think that it took me years between illegally downloading a dodgy PDF of these books, and actually reading it (legally) with my Italian library subscription.

Nelle Mie Vene - Flavio Soriga

  

For once a "cool" (or "relatively cool" at least) Italian author who speaks to me. And actually writes to me, as I once sent him a message to tell him what I though about one of his books, and he replied rather courteously. 

Nelle Mie Vene is a story that feels unfinished, most likely like the story of Soriga and his native Sardinia remains unfinished. Of this book I appreciated its raw poetic prose and the fact that it felt less autobiographical than I was expecting. 

A good read. Not one that will leave a lasting mark on global literature, but a pleasant - and most likely fair - love letter from an author to his land.

Maicolgecson - Paola Soriga

  

This is a cute book about growing up, first loves, and omnipresent families and social obligations. It's a novel about Italy and the 1980s and 1990s. 

So are countless others, and I couldn't help but wonder whether this one was published by Mondadori for the potential of easy sales among casual nostalgic readers, or whether it was because Paola Soriga is Flavio's younger sister. Regardless, this is a book that I'd lazily read at the seaside, but nothing more.

East of Acre Lane - Alex Wheatle

  

Oh what pleasure it is to read Alex Wheatle! Much like with Brixton Rock, I loved the novel already from its title (only difference being that I had liked East of Eden much better than Brighton Rock). 

And again, this is clearly a novel about a good kid in the middle of a (hopelessly?) tricky situation. And Brixton is loud, dangerous, interesting, buzzing and musical. It's also sad to hear Wheatle talk in recent interviews about what the place has (in part) become, though it's people like me that have contributed to its transformation. 

I can think of movies that capture contemporary South London in the way in which Wheatle's books capture that of the 1980s (Attack the Block being the most obvious example), I just hope that with time we'll also find authors - and not just filmmakers - capable of doing the same for 21st century Brixton.

Una Relazione - Stefano Sardo & Valetina Gaia

  

Is baring your life - and the dynamics of a very significant relationship - in a book a brave move or the result of a scarcity of ideas? A sign of self-love or self-loathe? Someting therapeutic or something self-celebrating? Possibly all of the above. 

This is a book that I've read because its authors come from my hometown and I bumped into them a couple of times when I was a teenager and they were in their 30s. Without this very loose personal connection, I most likely wouldn't have picked it up. 

Obviously co-authoring a book is a titanic effort for any writer, but here the limitations are at times clear, with the two authors taking on alternate chapters with different and uneven tones, styles, and not even agreeing on whether to narrate the story in the first or second person, making it hard for the reader to really feel involved in this project.

Man's Search for Meaning - Viktor Frankl

  

One of the closest things to a history book that I've read over the last couple of years. Yes, I'm truly an excellent historian...

This book was given to me as a thank-you gift by a student I worked with as he was writing his dissertation (I wouldn't say supervised because I'm not allowed to do that, but man did I read some drafts!). Apparently, it was one of his go-to gifts to friends, and I can understand why. 

Given the subject-matter, this is obviously a very compelling read, though it's clearly written by someone with a sizeabale ego. Then again, if one survives the Holocaust I think s/he is entitled to have whatever kind of ego. 

I've also read plenty of reviews criticizing the author's idea that his attitude contributed to his survival. Yes, I highly doubt that attitude had much to do with survival in a concentration camp and think that many other factors - including pure chance! - had a more significant impact. Then again, if one survives the Holocaust I think s/he is entitled to believe whatever they want as a way to explain coming out of it alive.

Solar - Ian McEwan

  

I much prefer McEwan doing "science" (or thereabouts) like in this book than him doing sci-fi like in Machines Like Me, but that's not saying much. 

Solar wasn't a bad read, but I have the feeling it's already aged quite a bit over the span of a dozen years. The main driving force behind it shouldn't be the personal life of its main character (which is not as interesting as that of a number of his other characters), but rather its scientific approach, which in 2022/3 already feels quite dated. 

And the finale, with the chickens coming home to roost isn't really the most surprising.

Bel-Ami - Guy de Maupassant

  

Nope. Maybe I'm just inoculated against the decadence of late-19th century Paris, but I just didn't enjoy this novel (probably the fact that in my edition the front cover was actually the latest movie rendition of the story, and I found Robert Pattinson unconvincing in the role even in picture). 

The one positive, I guess, is that there are some very well-developed female characters, and they also have a fair bit of agency. Yet, the story of the scoundrel who climbs the social ladder by virtue of tricks and charm is as old as time, and I suspect that was already the case in the 1880s, so there is little to remark (or at least to positively remark) in terms of plot development.

The Untouchable - John Banville

  

Not original. Not just in that the story of Anthony Blunt (or whatever kind of pseudonym he is hidden behind) is relatively well-known, but in that even Alan Bennett had written a fictional portrait of him well before Banville did. 

And yet, for once, I'm thinking: who the hell cares? The story remains fascinating and one of the few things that occasionally make me feel a bit of nostalgia for Cambridge, and Banville is one of the greatest living authors. 

So yeah, I thought this book was great, and thinking that The God of Small Things won the Booker that year makes me cringe a bit.

A Room of One's Own - Virginia Woolf

  

I actually read an Italian edition of this book, left behind by a neighbour in London. Its cover page didn't have the moody blue tones of this Penguin Modern Classic. Instead, it was all very pink and flowery. How very fitting. 

Having previously read (or, more appropriately, struggled to read) To the Lighthouse, my expectations were suitably low, not out of dislike for Woolf, but rather out of my own problems following her prose. I'm happy to report that said low expectations were widely exceeded, chiefly because in this essay Woolf appears more accessible, self-aware and still relevant to today's contest than what I would have ever imagined.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings - Maya Angelou

  

A book that I had clearly meant to read for a long, long time. Until one day I found a copy of it in our building's lobby...

It's a hauntingly beautiful, heartfelt and heartbreaking childhood tale that sadly still rings true in the context of 2023. A book that one can't put down and that can be finished in one intense sitting. 

Yet, after reading it I didn't feel the need to read the following six books in the series. I'd like to think that it's because I was intimidated by the size of the seven tomes put together and not becuase I'm a bad person who has no time for books that deal with racism, poverty and struggle, but I can't be sure.

Lincoln in the Bardo - George Saunders

  

The good-old-times, when neighbours left good - or at the very least readable - books in our building's lobby. 

I picked up Lincoln in the Bardo because, well, it had recently won the Man Booker Prize at the time. I was also curious to see what linked Lincoln and one of the world's most known museums. I then found out it wasn't that kind of Bardo...

I was absolutely blown away by the depiction of President Lincoln, his grief and humanity in the days of his son's death. Way, way less so by the long sections dealing with young Lincoln's life (actually, can you really call it "life"?!?) in the Bardo - mystic fantasy is really not quite my genre.

Judas - Amos Oz

  

A fitting end to the career - and life - of the greatest Israeli author (at least to my knowledge, and in my opinion). This was another book that I surprisingly found in our building's lobby, which was rather unexpected considering how few books by Israeli authors I've seen in stock in London bookshops over the years. 

Judas is a novel of secrets, mysteries, incomprehensions and unfulfilled hopes and desires. It oozes maturity and the wisdom of an old man permeates its pages, and I suspect that there is probably quite a bit of Oz in the reclusive Wald. 

A book that I decided to keep on my Billy bookshelf (despite being a rather large hardback), which is now starting to look decrepit itself and would probably deserve to be replaced.

Absalom, Absalom - William Faulkner

  

At a time in which I only had a few books left on my bedside table, I picked this one up. After all, Faulkner did win a Nobel prize and I couldn't just dismiss it on the basis of having struggled with The Sound and the Fury. 

Well, I struggled just as much with Absalom, Absalom!. Though I remember its plot vaguely more (most likely just because I've read it more recently) I found again the charm of the American South to be lost on me and, even more, the prose to be often completely inaccessible. 

In the end, I've decided that Faulkner is an author that makes me feel silly as, no matter how fluent and articulate I think I am, his brand of English remains largely impenetrable for me.

Il Tempo Migliore della Nostra Vita - Antonio Scurati

  

The typical book that my family keeps aside for me because "it's on Italian Fascism". 

Problem is: half of this book is pretty much my PhD thesis (which I wrote - but not published - way before, by the way). Better written, with much more literary fluorish (though with no historical embellishment) than my work, and ultimately read by a lot more people than the dozen unlucky academics and friends who had to read my dissertation. Still, the overlap was a bit too signifcant for me to find much pleasure in the sections on Leone Ginzburg. 

And the other half was a beautiful portrayal of family life in Fascist Italy. Problem is: there are so many of them around, and I'd always pick the family lives of unknown peasants over the family lives of people who just happened to be lucky enough to have a grandson who would go on to become one of the most acclaimed Italian writers and one who (unlike me!) has actually managed to re-ignite the interest of many Italians in their country's own past. 

So, this is arguably a vanity project, but one that is extremely well-written and worthy of a read, even when half of the book doesn't reserve any surprises (for me, at the very least).

I, Claudius - Robert Graves

  

This is a book that I got out of LSE's Shaw Library - that foreign land where students go to take lunchtime naps and nobody but me has borrowed a book since 1895 - at a time of very limited reading options for me. 

It's safe to say it's my third favourite (out of three) fictional accounts of Roman emperors after Julian (Gore Vidal) and most of all Memoirs of Hadrian (Yourcenar). It's a thick, slow read that is ever so dated, no matter how much the English seem to swear by Graves and his talent. And I'll leave it at that.

The Lost World - Michael Crichton

  

Not even the best book with its title (Arthur Conan Doyle wins hands down, unsurpisingly), but I have to admit that this novel was what I believe people label - rightfully - a page turner. 

The pace is quick, the chapters short, the actions packed over the span of 24 hours (or maybe 48 or thereabouts? I've read it a while ago and don't quite remember) and dinosaurs remain fascinating creatures (though this isn't quite a Crichton invention). 

The prose is terrible, the vocabulary limited and the science (or science fiction) feels a bit too accessible for someone who only ever did a bit of basic biology and chemistry in school, but the book is ultimately a good couple of hours of pretty good low-maintenance entertainment.

The Rebel - Albert Camus

  

My thoughts about this book mirror my thoughts about The Myth of Sisyphus, but The Rebel actually gets a proper post on this blog because it's the book that got me a work iPad. 

Until a couple of years ago, I always had a book with me as I was waiting for students to see me in our open-plan workspace. I'd much rather spend 5 minutes reading a couple of pages than staring at a wall. Then one day my boss informed me that it wasn't acceptable, that if the School's director was to walk in and see me with a book she would have thought I was underworked (not strictly speaking untrue...) and that he would get me an iPad so I could do my e-mails in those lulls between meetings. Needless to say, that is the iPad on which I'm now reading a lot of ebooks...

As for The Rebel and The Myth of Sisyphus, I read them at a time in which I didn't have many other options handy. I read them because I felt that I had to, and because I had loved The Plague and The Outsider. Yet, these two less accessible books proved to be a slog for me. In short: instead of reading philosophical essays, I'm much better off reading their synopses on Wikipedia!

The Satanic Verses - Salman Rushdie

  

If I was to just write about this as, well, a book, I'd mention the wonderful opening scene and how it made me appreciate magical realism for the first time since I was a teenager. And then I'd talk about how that magical realism grows stale with the passing chapters. 

I'd also talk about how the novel is a sign of an author whose life and allegiance is deeply divided between countries and cultures. 

I'd also say that, ultimately, I don't consider the book a masterwork. 

Yet, one cannot talk about The Satanic Verses without talking about how the novel changed our world and, most of all, Rushdie's own world. This was true before 2022, and it has only become more true now. We are not talking about a tasteless Italian politician showing off his t-shirt with a cartoon of Muhammad. We are talking about an author who wrote (and wrote well) dream sequences in a novel, but that also happened to criticize Khomeini in the process. And we're talking about an author whose life was then turned upside-down and threatened time and again by people who most likely didn't even read his novel.

A Tale of Love and Darkness - Amos Oz

  

I like Oz's novels, I like Oz's children books, and I was clearly bound to like his own autobiography. 

It's long, and that's undeniable. It also often repeats itself, but that's to be expected with a non-linear timeline for some 500-odd pages. Yet, it's fabulously written, and the history (both the capitalized version, and the family history) depicted in the book is obviously fascinating. I don't think I could have coped with 100 more finely printed pages, but man I'm glad that I've read this book. 

And perhaps I should watch Natalie Portman's movie version too...

Spatriati - Mario Desiati

 

Another book that I read while trying to regain confidence with (and faith in) Italian literature. I honestly thought that starting with recent winners of the Premio Strega would have been a good move. After all, it's the biggest award one can win, and I'm not necessarily opposed to reading what the big publishing companies are deeming worthy of praise these days. In hindsight, it might not have been a great decision.

Spatriati is a little story of friendship (not particularly exciting), life in the province (been there, done that) and sexual transgression (which, for me, leaves a lot to be desired). To be frank, I would have probably been happy enough to read it if it was a book I had stumbled upon by chance in a second-hand bookshop, but to think that this is could be considered the high point of contemporary Italian queer literature leaves me somewhat perplexed.