La Malnata - Beatrice Salvioni

And - finally! - a recent Italian book that I actually enjoyed. 

Maybe (actually, surely) not a work of art that is going to land its young author the Nobel prize, but hey at least it's a ray of light in the rather dark landscape of Italian literature. 

La Malnata is the story of two young girls in Fascist Italy. Written in a dry style that at times reminds one of Fenoglio, it features a plethora of secondary characters that are more or less developed (and more or less monolithic), but the two protagonists are neatly thought-out and brought to life. 

It is all a bit predictable, but I can live with that as Salvioni, unlike many of her contemporaries who know how to write (and just don't have any interesting ideas), doesn't seem to be madly in love with herself and allows her prose to roll quite freely. 

Summer Book – Tove Jansson

A book that I’ve bought (again at the Blackheath Book Sale!) because my former English teacher recommended it to me.

The good things I can say of this are: it’s cute, it’s an easy and relaxing summer read, it reminded me of Pippi Longstocking, and it’s so much better than the Winter Book (then again, hardly the literary accomplishment of a lifetime).

And there are ultimately no bad things I can say about this book, other than the fact that it’s “cute” (which I earlier listed as a positive, but it’s undeniably also a big limitation) and that I really wish it had some sort of development rather than being ultimately a collection of free-standing short-stories. Or, yet again, maybe I’m just not deep and poetic (or, crucially in this case, a woman – as I believe a book like this appeals more to a female audience).

But one thing did blow my mind: back in the day those extremely sweet characters who lived in close contact with nature found it perfectly ok to dump their rubbish in the sea. Oh the times they-are-a-changing (very rightfully!)…

The House on Mango Street – Sandra Cisneros

I originally had no idea how this random book made its way onto my bookshelves. Turns out it was an old book my wife bought during her college days in the US, then brought down with her to Bolivia, was boxed and shipped to Brazil after her family moved there, and finally found its way to London after she went down to South America on an extended visit. The book has been around, and it shows – it’s covered with foxing stains and its pages seem to hold together by pure coincidence.

I had never heard of it (my bad, as usual, as a self-critical white European male) and had no expectations. Given its size, I figured I could read it during one of my daughters’ rare naps and, for once, did it without reading “around it” on the web beforehand. Judging by its cover, synopsis and vignette structure, I assumed the book would be raw, unpolished and rough, and the read would feel scattered and intermittent. And it was. But the book was also intriguing, well-written and, in a way, eye-opening.

So I’m really glad I invested little more than hour reading this. I have read very little non-white North American literature and this book was a very welcome change – I wouldn’t go as far as saying that it’s one of my favourite books, but, despite its frequent violence, it felt like a nice bit of fresh air. Oddly enough, I also think that some of its stylistic shortcomings (I’m not quite sure vignettes can make for great literature, for instance) were simultaneously some of its most interesting tracts. 

Treasure Island – Robert Louis Stevenson

One of the books I postponed reading for, well, about 19 years. The first 4 of those years were because I didn’t feel like reading anything anyway, the following 15 because why reading a book when you already know the story and you are afraid of getting Jethro Tull’s Mother Goose stuck in your head as you read it (“Four and twenty labourers were labouring, And digging up their gold, I don't believe they knew that I was Long John Silver”)?

Well, turns out that you should read this book despite the fact that you already know how it will end because it’s possibly the greatest novel ever written. It combines the sense of adventure of The Lost World or 20.000 Leagues under the Sea with a plot that is ever so slightly less improbable, and Stevenson’s prose is unparalleled – meaning that for me the book ranks up there with Around the World in 80 Days.

As far as bad guys that are actually (maybe possibly) not so-bad (and may have fallen on hard times so might deserve our understanding) Long John Silver is second to none, despite the fact that the narrator is a bit of a know-it-all.

I am not that familiar with contemporary fiction for young-adults, but I really don’t think there is anything that could come even remotely close to this. 

Youth – J.M. Coetzee

50p. Local farm bookshelves. All that.

Now, I would buy pretty much anything written by Coetzee (and pretty much anything that sells for 50p for that matter) so I couldn’t resist the temptation to buy Youth, but, objectively, this is just a very well-written story of (what was then a) fairly average young man trying to find his way in big and scary London. Sure, Coetzee writes impeccably, and the sections of the story set in the IT company at the outskirts of London have got the traits of a bizarre coming-of-age story (his nerdy  colleague who can’t feed himself is probably the best part here), but that’s about it.

All in all, its literary weight is probably inferior to that of Orwell’s Keep the Aspidistra Flying (which I found just about bearable a few months ago), but since I love Coetzee and I don’t really love Orwell, I’ll try to not say this too loudly…

The Casual Vacancy – J.K. Rowling

I’ve only read one Harry Potter. That makes me an awful human being in the eyes of many, but that also means that I’m not disappointed at the lack of magic in this book by J.K. Rowling.

The Casual Vacancy is daring but enjoyable. Its characters for one reason or another are mostly unlikable (maybe with the exception of the Walls and of Andrew?) but remain interesting. The plot is not something that leaves the reader on the edge of the seat – I mean, these are local elections after all… – but the novel is quite an acute portrayal of contemporary Britain.

So in all fairness I think J.K. Rowling should be given credit for writing this book (and for making a number of points that are surprisingly and commendably political). It was really quite good. Had it had a bit more irony or humour in it (nothing really brought a smile to my face, except maybe for old and drunken Samantha snogging teenage Andrew) perhaps it would have even been “really” good…

Cat and Mouse - Günter Grass

It was rather surprising to read such a short – and fundamentally simple and linear – novella by Grass after powering through the hefty (yet absolutely wonderful) The Tin Drum. The links between the two are many: clearly the setting, but also the unreliability of the narrator (Pilenz is not as unruly as Oskar, yet his desire to justify himself makes the reader question whether or not he is telling the whole truth, or just his own) not to mention the fact that Oskar himself does make a couple of appearances in the book (something I could have done without, as I saw little need for such explicit tribute).

The intimacy of the novella is very touching, as well as the narrator’s decision to directly address Mahlke time and again. The innocence of the two main characters is lost in the 140 pages of the book, but, given the setting, no reader could – or should – make a moral judgement (even when Pilenz writes that he hopes not to have said anything that might have damaged his freemason teacher, or when Mahlke takes his dramatic decisions in the last few pages).

Throughout the book the reader knows perfectly well that things are going to take a turn for the worse, but the sadness of the last couple of pages is something that is absolutely lacerating for a book about teenagers growing up together. 

The Rotters’ Club – Jonathan Coe

A book that my mom tried to persuade me to read for years. All it took for me to read it was for my boss to recommend it…

There are a number of reasons why I particularly enjoyed this novel: being used to Zadie Smith, Hanif Kureishi, Hari Kunzru, etc. it was refreshing for once to read a (relatively) recent light-hearted and socio-political British novel that wasn’t set in London. Also, despite the fact that my political allegiances lie elsewhere (very much so), it was a welcome change to read a novel about the personal growth and the self-doubts of a little Tory (despite the fact that Ben’s lefty friend Doug is clearly my favourite character).  Lastly, a scene in the final pages is set in the Gramercy Park Hotel in New York, a place that was wonderfully quaint and still oozing – between its cracked walls and leaking pipes – of Lou Reed, Bob Dylan and Patti Smith when my dad took us there 20 years ago (before it got refurbished and very much revamped).

From a stylistic point of view, Coe does a great job of alternating registers and viewpoints. His little plot twists leave you disheartened (at the very end of the first part), warm inside (during a dialogue apparently with himself that Ben has mid-way through the second part), giggly (when you discover who is the actual author of some of the most hysterical letters that the editor of a school journal can ever receive), or give you hope for the future of mankind (with Ben’s decision to go home before the end of a disastrous family holiday in Wales).

It’s been a while since I’ve last expressed this trite idea – The Rotters’ Club is clearly not a masterpiece, but hell it’s a really enjoyable read…

Ti Prendo e Ti Porto Via – Niccolò Ammaniti

My biggest high-school crush, the one who, quite literally, crushed my heart, gave me this book. It wasn’t even my birthday. I thought it meant she was mine. I was clearly wrong.

Probably because of the mood I was in as I read the book, this is my favourite Ammaniti novel. It does have some gory pulpy sections (like the idea of throwing a radio in a bathtub to electrocute a teacher – something not even the most sociopathic bully would dream of doing, hopefully), but they are few and far between so actually end up being just funny interludes.

Of the two main male characters, one is clearly a jerk, but the other is absolutely adorable in his sadness and his desire to change his life around despite his very young age. Back when I read the novel, it gave me hope for both Italy and Italian literature. Worry not, in both cases I’ve lost most of it by now.

Jack Frusciante E’ Uscito dal Gruppo – Enrico Brizzi

The book every Italian kid born in the 1980s has read in his/her early teens. Single-handedly responsible for my decision to call my mother “Mutter” for the past 15 years and for giving me false hopes about shy girls (in the book they turn out to be loving and sensible, in my teenage years they were just – with the benefit of insight – not really worth my time). It is also partially responsible for my love for cycling around my hometown on my vintage bike (although credit here goes first and foremost to my parents).

The novel is “rock” but it’s not of the calibre of, say, The Buddha of Suburbia – it is “rock” in a provincial and low-profile sort of way. The plot is offensively simple – just a high-school love story – but its appeal for Italian teenagers is absolutely undeniable.

My parents also really enjoyed the book, immediately stating that something was rotten in the state of Denmark (somehow, one of us quotes this line from Hamlet, or “to die, to sleep. To sleep perchance to dream” at least once a week – at times I mockingly tell my wife that “frailty, thy name is woman” but that usually results in a not-so-frail slap on the back of my head). And something was undeniably rotten somewhere, because different generations are not meant to both enjoy a “generation-defining” book, and because Enrico Brizzi never again wrote anything remotely readable.

Ragazzi di Vita – Pier Paolo Pasolini

No need to repeat how much of a genius Pasolini was, in every possible field. The book is simultaneously heart-warming and heart-breaking in its simplicity, like many of the author’s movies.

I’m not quite sure whether the protagonist of the novel is Riccetto or Rome itself. The book is a great display of love for the city and for its borgatari, the people of the popular neighbourhoods of the Italian capital (this is similar in many ways to how I felt in many passages of Elsa Morante’s La Storia). Reading about the painful growing-up process of a boy is also rather strange in a book that is definitely not aimed at young adults.

Having watched countless Pasolini movies, I can just picture Riccetto played by Ninetto Davoli, one of Pasolini’s favourite actors, and the death of Marcello felt so similar to that of Ettore in the seminal Mamma Roma.

Middlesex – Jeffrey Eugenides

To all those who are quick to judge what male and female boundaries are and what gender roles have to be (no conditionals, clearly) : I so wish I could force you to read this book.

There is just so much in this novel: history (a great portrayal of the conflict between Turks and Greeks, but also of hippie culture in San Francisco), identity, race, growing-up and, clearly, gender. I loved reading, for once, a book with remarkably lofty ambitions that doesn’t just manage to fulfil those, but remains readable in the process.

Eugenides manages to write about this journey of self-discovery with delicate irony even in its most delicate pages.

And then why haven’t I read Eugenides’s two other novels? I have no idea...

The Tin Drum – Günter Grass

One of the greatest novels I’ve ever read. Too bad it’s one book too long (I didn’t really see much of a point in the chapters on the early Cold War in Europe, probably because I find that to be a rather boring period).

Personally, I think the most significant feature of the novel is the self-portrayal of the narrator, Oskar, a character the reader initially wants to hug and cuddle, and later ends up distrusting and stepping away from. Oskar is simultaneously acute enough to decide to stop growing when he is a 3-year old disgusted by the world, and selfishly childish enough to cause the death of his two potential fathers. When I came to the realization he was responsible for the two deaths (something that I would have probably denied, had it not been for the fact that Oskar highlights it, at times with remorse, at times as a matter of fact) I was almost in tears.

Because of its size, and despite its undeniable qualities, this is a book that I had to read over the span of a week. Prolonging the anxiety for that long was really rather intense and this was a book that ended up affecting my mood throughout those days.