Anna - Niccolò Ammaniti

 

Every now and again, Ammaniti writes a good book. Most of the times though, as my high-school teachers would say, his remains a story of "unfulfilled potential". A promising start with some fairly pleasant pulp novels, flirting with very-good literature with Ti Prendo e Ti Porto Via, actual (inter)national recognition with Io Non Ho Paura and the subsequent movie (a blessing and a curse) and then so many "meh" books. 

Anna is, at the very best, another "meh" book. The dystopian race to the sea and the search for what's "on the other side" is old and stale. This is not The Road, but not even the Italian L'Uomo Verticale. This is actually just a cheap shot, trying to sell a few more copies by looking at children and their resourcefulness (and savagery) when adults are not around (and since we're at it, this book isn't Lord of the Flies either, needless to say...). 

The only redeeming feature of the book is that, at the very least, it was written before the COVID-19 pandemic, meaning that at least the mysterious virus that kills all adults but spares children can be credited with some originality. 

A Home at the End of the World – Michael Cunningham

A book that the same girl who had given me The Hours lent me when I was 16 (kudos to her, she figured she could impress me with Michael Cunningham).

Three-way loves have been explored by countless authors, but Cunningham simply does it better (and it also throws in a bit of suburban life and a passage in New York City for good measure, just to make sure he can have me hooked). The scene of the death of Bobby’s brother in the first few pages, and the final one in the lake are, somehow, two of the most vivid images a book has ever left me with.

And I’d just like to copy and paste my final comment about The Hours since it clearly also applies here: “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.”

Although it’s probably kind of sad when you start quoting yourself.