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?