The Flamethrowers - Rachel Kushner

The Mars Room is still my favourite Kushner novel to date. I possibly had too high expectations of The Flamethrowers, and while I found it a really enjoyable novel, I didn't quite think it was one of the best of the 21st century, failing short of being either a "great American novel" or a "great transnational novel". 

The parts that I found most exciting were without a doubt the American ones - in particular the ones set in Utah, between the mentions of Spiral Jetty, the discussions of the main character's artistic and photographic aspirations, and her motorcycle rides (whose epic nature reminded me of Peter Carey's A Long Way from Home). 

The Italian section, on the other hand, left me quite dissatisfied, between an overview of the situation that feels superficial, a family dynamic that I found fairly uninteresting, and the decision to cross the border into France in the one place that all readers must know (Mount Blanc - I was unimpressed). While some reviewers argue that Kushner wrote a great novel about Italian terrorism in the 1970s, I think this pales in comparison to, say, Dario Ferrari's La Ricreazione E' Finita. 

The Man in the Red Coat - Julian Barnes

Ok. This one is on me. The other week - short of ideas - I picked the first Julian Barnes book that was available in my Italian e-library. 

I read it was about the life of a doctor (Pozzi) whose portrait had been painted by Sargent and I mistakenly assumed this would be a work of fiction along the lines of Flaubert's Parrot. 

Instead it was a couple of hundred pages of pedantically detailed accounts of the lives of Pozzi, his family, and his circle of posh friends. Even the occasional humorous remarks by Barnes didn't hit the mark with me as I read this book while on auto-pilot, having lost all interest in it after a dozen pages. 

Reminder: maybe don't read reviews beforehand, but at least read a book's synopsis next time...

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. 

Perspective(s) - Laurent Binet

My boss gave me this book as she believes I can read French well and easily. That's a lie, at least partially. It had been years since I had last read anything more than a page in the language, and being able to read a whole book was a great ego-boost. Sure, being familiar with the setting helped, but I’m still rather happy to have read a whole novel in my (non-existing) fourth language.

Before moving on to what I liked about it, let me mention two things that I wasn’t entirely sold on, in the most classic of “feedback sandwiches”.

1. The premise: I cannot suspend my belief enough to buy into the author finding these letters in an antiques shop. They wouldn’t be just “yellowed” with time, they would be falling to pieces. They also wouldn’t offer so complete an account (also: what conspirators save their entire correspondence?!?). I do realize it’s a bit unfair of me to compare a good book like this one to one of the greatest works of the 20th century, but in Il Nome della Rosa Umberto Eco frames everything so much better, openly admitting that he had to do a lot of further research and put in much guesswork in order to fill the huge gaps left by the sources he had stumbled upon.

2. Anachronisms: a lot of things went over my head because my French is what it is, but at times I felt like 16th century Italians wouldn’t really talk/write like that. Often this was just a feeling of mine, but at times it felt more tangible (like when Maria writes that she wouldn’t want to run away from Florence like a “bohémienne”)

Having said that, I loved the characterization of Vasari. I find him unlikeable, but he steals the show. And the many snide comments about other artists perfectly highlight how he (and his biases – positive and negative) influenced the way in which I, and the world in general, think about the art of the period. Michelangelo is the one I could have done without, as I think it’s a bit of an easy escamotage to have the most known name in the story act as the Deus ex machina pretty much raiding Florence from Rome.

The book’s biggest success for me is the way in which it made me long for Florence. It perfectly captures the spirit of the city (and often of the time) in what is probably the most sincere declaration of literary love for the Italian Renaissance that I’ve come across since reading Ali Smith’s How To Be Both almost a decade ago.

The Blazing World - Siri Hustvedt

Oh, Halcyon books and its wonderful finds...For a change, my mom read this book before I did and liked it despite struggling a bit with it. Possibly because of my greater familiarity with academic writing (sigh?!?) I actually found it really quite accessible.

The book has absolutely everything from my point of view - art, mystery, bizarre love plots, a number of different writing styles and registers, tricky gender dynamics and a wonderful setting in Brooklyn.

Of all the questions the book raised for me, the biggest ones probably regard Siri Hustvedt herself: how does it feel to be considered the wife of a creative genius, when you yourself are an incredibly talented writer (possibly more than your better half)? And is there any chance Siri Hustvedt might have written chapters, if not whole books, for which Paul Auster got credit?

The Map and the Territory - Michel Houellebecq

The first book I've read since re-discovering LSE's Shaw Library, of which I'm probably the only user right now (between the fact that term has ended that the fact that, well, nobody really reads anyway).

Having never read any Houellebecq I knew that I had to give him a chance at some point. I was biased before the start, knowing that he's an arrogant reactionary ass, and with this book I discovered that he is all that, but also a genius.

It takes a boundless ego to put oneself as a larger-than-life secondary character whose aura can be perceived across the entire novel like Darth Vader's presence can be felt on the Death Star, and I think he had the time of his life describing the aftermath of his own murder, but the book is surprisingly deep in its reflections on the ageing process, in its handling of love, and crucially in its poignant descriptions of the art world (and the opening with Jeff Koons and Damien Hirst is just so incredibly good).

How To Be Both - Ali Smith

And thus I discovered Ali Smith. At the tender age of 31 (me, not Ali Smith).

How To Be Both is easily one of the best books I've read this year, and we are at 29 so far. This has to do partially with the fact that it's a novel of two halves that can be read in whichever order, and what blows my mind is that it can actually really work like that. Another reason is surely the decision to focus on Ferrara, a city that I have great memories of visiting as a kid and one that I went back to a couple of years ago with great joy.

Oddly enough, despite the factually questionable stories of disguise in the Renaissance (though extremely interesting from a 21st century perspective) Smith doesn't give a sickening sweet and fake picture of Italy as so many authors do, and that's one of the novels' greatest achievements.

And it also made me want to go back to the National Gallery, the London museum that I have neglected the most over the past 8 years (though I probably spent enough time there in my first 4 years to make up for the prolonged absence).

My Name is Asher Lev – Chaim Potok

For all the love that I normally give to the farm, Halycon Books in Greenwich, with its current 1£ sale on all its books, might be my new favourite place in the world (and one that I discovered absolutely by chance after a disappointing trip to the Amnesty International book sale in Blackheath). Having had only a few minutes in the shop, I grabbed one of the first books that caught my eye, and man was I pleased.

My Name Is Asher Lev might be the best book I’ve read in 2017. It’s got everything, and a bit more. It’s Jewish (not “just” Philip Roth or Mordechai Richler Jewish – Chaim Potok was a rabbi!), it’s set in New York but with extensive sections in Paris, it’s about art but also about artists, about the perilous balance of an unstable family, and Asher Lev’s life is surrounded by wonderful secondary characters (for me Reb Yudel Krinsky is right up there with Melquiades, and that says a lot).

There is absolutely nothing I would ever dare to criticize about My Name Is Asher Lev – although sadly that means that I am really in no rush to read any other Potok books (and in particular not The Gift of Asher Lev) for fear of spoiling its memory.

An Artist of the Floating World – Kazuo Ishiguro

Kazuo, don’t let me down (you have found her, now go and get her)! Seriously, I picked this book from the Blackheath book sale because it was meant to be one of his best novels, and I was really quite disappointed.

While it is interesting reading about an artist who was “on the wrong side” during WWII and his justification for his actions, I find the prose and its tones to be, quite frankly, way too bland and pastel-like. On top of that, I’ve always found artists who don’t engage in politics because they are preoccupied with the “floating world” (or at least they are telling themselves that) to be the antinomy of a true artist.

Maybe, had I not had high expectations from this book, I would have enjoyed it more – but I hold Ishiguro to a (much) higher standard than this…

The Goldfinch – Donna Tartt

There is nothing wrong with reading a best-seller every now and again. In particular one that has won the Pulitzer Prize. In particular one that was bought for 2 cheeky pounds.

However, there are plenty of things that I think are wrong with this particular book: it’s long; Donna Tartt spends the first 400 pages of it essentially trying to persuade the reader of how good-natured the main character is before making his dramatic entry into the criminal underworld (and the fact that it essentially jumps from Theo’s return from Vegas straight into his shady dealings makes you wonder what he has actually done in the meantime – it’s not quite like what’s happened to Jesus between the age of 12 and 30, but almost…), and most of all the ending, with its banal comments about life, its meaning, and its shortness, is so trite that I actually really struggled to read that final chapter.

On the plus side, though, the art comments are really interesting, but probably that’s because I’m Italian and, never having had much time for Dutch and Flemish art, most of those were actually new to me…

Still, I have to recognize that this is a book that has to be read. And, at least in my case, one that should be pretty much forgotten once it’s over. 

L’Amante Senza Fissa Dimora – Carlo Fruttero & Franco Lucentini

This was a very thoughtful gift by my best-friend’s mother, after I had taken her daughter to Venice (she was actually keen on visiting every church, unlike the girl I had previously taken) and right before I left for Canada (again, with her daughter seeing me off at the airport with my parents).

Fruttero & Lucentini were not the greatest Italian writers of the 20^th century, but for anyone who loves Turin and/or Venice their books are endearing to say the least. In addition to that, L’Amante Senza Fissa Dimora borrows heavily from the Jewish milieu and tradition, making it a sure sell with me. The love story is sweet, the switching viewpoints kind of neat (and again made me wonder whether Fruttero was writing one and Lucentini the other) and most of all the fact that I knew who Fugger was made me feel incredibly smug (more so than the usual, if at all possible).

The Hours – Michael Cunningham

A book that was given to me by a girl who had a huge crush on me when I was 16, and with whom I was not particularly kind. She gave me this novel to impress me and, at that age when nobody around me actually read, she did.

It made me want to read something by Virginia Woolf (a desire that quickly vanished after reading To the Lighthouse). I have the feeling that most readers end up remembering mostly either the portrayal of Virginia Woolf, or that of Richard Brown, but to me Laura Brown is by far the most interesting character in this novel (probably also because of my undying love for Julianne Moore, who played her in the movie – a love that started in the early 2000s before the entire world was in love with her, by the way). Although it’s a reality that is really rather far from me, I somehow love depictions of American sub-urban life in the post-WWII period – in my mental imagery the era always has the most beautiful colours.

The book is written with such a soft touch that probably only gay writers can master without falling into plain sappy romanticism (although Cunningham himself doesn’t like being referred to as a gay writer). It’s a shame that, now, so many readers seem to have forgotten about Cunningham’s talent. 

Death in Venice – Thomas Mann

I have a list of books that I intend to write something about. Just because I can’t decide where to start, each of these books is given a number, and then I pick which one I should write about next by using a random number generator (or ask my wife for a random number). Curiously enough, I now have to write about back-to-back Mann(s).

This book was recommended to us by our high-school teacher as a summer read. Her expectations were a bit too high – I’m quite positive I ended up being the only kid in the class to actually read the book, and surely the only one not to simply think of Gustav as a “perverted faggot” (in my classmates’ defence, it will probably take millennia to undo what good old Catholic morals have done to little Italian towns).

I was 15, and at the start I struggled mightily with Mann’s style. I re-started the book so many times that I had come to know the first page of the book by heart. But then I got started, and fell in love. In my mind, Tadzio had the exact traits of the young actor who played him in the Visconti movie. And this is one of the few books that I would consider re-reading (there are just too many great books to read, and I have the feeling that I simply won’t have time to re-read any, save a few exceptions).

I’m one of those people who think that Venice is the most fascinating and magical place in the world. Until I read the book, however, I never liked its Lido. I still don’t, but now I’ve gone there a bunch of times just because of the book.