Questa Non E' Una Canzone d'Amore - Alessandro Robecchi

 

I have a brilliant idea: why doesn't someone write a crime novel? Maybe with a caustically ironic main character, throwing in a bit of police incompetence, with a hint of political subterfuge to add to the mix. 

Yes, what a novel idea. Which is exactly what Robecchi must have thought (and, sadly, exactly what editors and readers alike have thought, given the number of sequels that this book has spurred). 

The author appears to be in love with himself, his own sense of humour, and his imaginative metaphors. Much like most authors of books entirely made up of 4-page chapters. Too bad I don't even begin to consider them remotely and/or potentially serious or respectable. 

Baugmartner - Paul Auster

 

And thus one of my favourite authors got a book published just by virtue of being Paul Auster. 

This book has no redeeming features. It is a series of short(ish) chapters in the life of the titular character as he grows old. A lot of them look like they were put together haphazardly, and Auster most likely recycled bits and pieces of some of his previous unpublished work to put together the underwhelming story of an ageing academic. 

Auster can only be forgiven because of the tough times he's going through, but I doubt an up-and-coming writer would have been able to publish a book of this (low) calibre. 

Scheletri - Zerocalcare

 

I've read a few books by Zerocalcare, but somehow never wrote about them here (stigma against comic books, even for someone who has read a lot of them?). 

Of all the ones that I've read, this was probably the one I found most interesting (not necessarily the best, but the most interesting). It does have - as usual - its fair share of deep moments (in particular reflections in terms of what we know and what we do not know about the people around us) and light-hearted ones. 

More than anything, though, I would have liked to see something more of Secco and understand better why he is at times critical of Zerocalcare and his success (and, implicitly, his inability to deal with children, like most childless 30-something men). 

Killing Commendatore - Haruki Murakami

 

I'm not about to become a Murakami fan. Not even close. But with a dwindling supply of readable books from the Southwark e-library I found myself picking this 700-page novel that at times seems to struggle to find its own purpose. 

Yet, for a good 500 pages, I found this to be my favourite Murakami book so far (which, admittedly, is not saying much). Then it really jumped the shark, or - literally - it went down a delirious imaginary (rabbit?) hole for 150 pages before a couple of final chapters that try to provide a semi-coherent end to this story. 

Not really a great read, but to be completely frank my expectations were so low that for large sections it managed to exceed them. 

Murder Before Evensong - Richard Coles

 

Well, I guess that if I must read a run-of-the-mill crime novel every now and again (and whether I like it or not, every now and again I do have to do that...), I might as well read something by an author that I find to be at least an interesting person.

Murder Before Evensong is a well-mannered novel by someone who comes across as a well-mannered clergyman and decades ago came across as a well-mannered pop musician. It's not going to rock anyone's world, but at the very least it did not upset me as much as John Banville's crime stories mixing rural life, religion and aristocracy. 

Also, obviously, being Richard Coles, his treatment of marginalized groups (being them queer or gypsies) is really rather delicate. And the novel has enough references to pop culture to be palatable for me.