The Fathers - John Niven

 

A book that I picked up by chance, and chiefly because I felt that it could provide some light entertainment and occasional insight. 

And that it did. With the obvious clash of cultures and classes that its cover promised, but done with a gracious touch that reminded me of John Lanchester. 

Nothing in the book is excessively surprising. Things seem to take a turn for the worse, then everything works out for pretty much everyone. Yet, there are enough moments - funny, dramatic (this book did nothing to placate my fear of children and grapes), insightful - to make it a compelling read. And Niven does a really good job of highlighting what I think is one of the most overlooked issues for "my" people: middle and upper-middle class people don't have children, or have them very late in life. 

Bambino - Marco Balzano

After reading Resto Qui I ultimately decided that my perplexities about its plot (and the decision to cover an excessively long time span) were trumped by the fact that I had enjoyed reading something about a (hi)story I knew nothing about. 

So, with the same spirit, I approached Bambino, because the Italian North-East and its recent past remain big mysteries to me. 

I appreciated the fact that the narrator/main character of the novel is deeply unlikeable, and his lack of politics but deep-seated hunger for power, authority, influence, violence and money are ultimately a pretty good reflection of why so many Italians were (are?!?) attracted by the Fascist regime. 

While not a great book, this for me was most definitely a good book. The biggest shame, like with Sunset Boulevard, is that I find it annoying to have a narrator telling his story after his own death is hinted at (or openly depicted) since the very beginning. 

Mon Assassin - Daniel Pennac

 

The book that I didn't know I needed. Seriously. The last novel by Pennac had left me so unmoved and disappointed, but this short book (not quite a novella, not fully an autobiography) brought me peace and closure. 

It is extremely tactful, and I ultimately see it as an attempt by Pennac to exorcise some of his demons, talk about loss, give his real-life friends and unorthodox family members their chance to take centre stage, and in general come to terms with the end of his career and, in the not so distant future, eventually the end of his own life. 

Unfortunately, I'm rather certain that in a couple of years he'll be persuaded to write something else, or someone will unearth an early draft of an unfinished novel and decide to publish it, or something equally unappealing. And sadly Pennac will have his own Baugmartner or, possibly worse, Silverview or,  possibly worse, Go Set a Watchman. 

Divorare il Cielo - Paolo Giordano

 

I got this book as I had (surprisingly) loved Tasmania last year and, after all, Paolo Giordano had written one of the biggest Italian editorial successes of the 21st century. 

Instead, with Divorare il Cielo we have a very early, but very serious, contender for "worst book I've read in 2025". 

The plot is poor and jumps the shark about 25 times. The characters are either unbearable, unbelievable, or underdeveloped (in particular every woman other than the narrator), but preferably all three. Somehow, the book also made me sincerely uninterested in Apulia, which is now widely considered one of the coolest regions of Italy. 

It really felt like Giordano was trying to present himself as the Italian Franzen here, but fell way short in all things that make Franzen great, and just went way more wrong in all the things that at times make me question Franzen's actual greatness...

Le Madri Non Dormono Mai - Lorenzo Marone

 

A book that I read on my phone as I couldn't really carry anything bigger with me as I jogged for 800 km along the Camino de Santiago this summer. 

And despite being dog-tired, I did manage to finish this and a couple of other novels, but none really impressed me that much. 

Crucially, with this book, I kept on wondering whether it is better for a man to tell the story of those Italian mothers who have to raise their children in jail, or whether we should wait for - dare I say it - a woman to do that. On top of that, the depiction of poverty and crime in Naples really feels gimmicky (here, as in so many other depictions). 

The Twenty-Seventh City - Jonathan Franzen

 

I read this book because, well, it's Franzen and I've read every other Franzen novel (I believe - I know I could check on Wikipedia, but I can't be bothered at the moment). 

Despite the low expectations, I enjoyed this book "enough". That said, I was a bit at odds with the scheming police officer's background. Indian people have got a little less than zero visibility in North-American literature as as I know, and in here Jammu essentially comes across as the Palpatine of St Louis. On the other hand, Franzen does look at one individual and the influence she has on "her people" (both in terms of those around her in general, and the Indian community in the city) and does not seem to make (too many) harsh generalizations. 

The book packs in a lot. As is the case at times with Franzen, it probably packs in too much. And by the time the final pages come, the novel and its author definitely jump the shark. 

Death in Her Hands - Ottessa Moshfegh

This is another book by Moshfegh that I've recently read. And this one I've actually liked, at the very least for the most part. 

At times it read a bit like Olive Kitteridge minus the humour, at times like The Lovely Bones with a smaller touch of paranormal. In general, it was compelling if not gripping. 

The novel is a nice exploration of solitude and ageing, but also of some people's innate yearning for adventure and thrills. Yet, by the end of it, the unreliability of the narrator made the novel unravel a bit too much for my (complete) liking. 

Squeeze Play - Paul Benjamin

A novel that I read only because I was curious to read something by Paul Auster when he was writing under his pen name. After all, I loved Smoke and in it William Hurt's character is Paul Benjamin. On top of that, with time I have grown to like Auster's obsession with baseball. 

I had pretty low expectations of this book, and I'm pleased to see those low expectations were met. A quick enough read. An easy enough read. 

Nothing much beyond that. As far as noirs are concerned, this feels a bit out sync with the canon because it was published in the 1980s, but it's probably of a quality similar to that of hundreds of other novels of the same genres that have been forgotten with time (and if this one is still published somewhere, it's only because Paul Benjamin was Paul Auster). 

La Quarta Versione di Giuda - Dario Ferrari

Despite being utterly fed up with detective stories, I gave this book a try because I liked La Ricreazione E' Finita so much. 

And I have to admit that Ferrari somehow managed to make me enjoy a book that is both about a murder (well, two by the end of it) and religion (there are few things I dislike as much as literary Catholic-bashing, despite being really, really, really far from being a fan of the Catholic Church). 

Perhaps it's his multiple mentions of Sciascia, or perhaps it's the fact that Ferrari's defence of the poor and oppressed doesn't feel tokenistic, but for once I am honestly glad I read an Italian crime novel (despite the fact that the citations from Borges left me rather unmoved). 

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. 

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). 

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. 

Strong Motion - Jonathan Franzen

 

While I didn't like this book as much as The Corrections (hell, at times I think I won't ever like another 21st century American book as much as I liked The Corrections...) I was really surprised by how much I enjoyed Strong Motion and by the fact that it's not held in higher regard by critics. 

When compared to other books by Franzen, I feel that Strong Motion does religion better than Crossroads, environment better than Freedom, and historical digging better than Purity.  

At times the prose felt a bit too underdeveloped, but two passages that I felt stole the show were the initial confrontation between Reneé and reverend Stites and the crash course in the (economic) history of the United States by Louis's father. This is possibly a relatively raw and juvenile work, but really one that - in my humble opinion - deserves more attention. 

The Seventh Function of Language - Laurent Binet

 

Having read Perspective(s), and having found it a fairly pleasant easy read, I decided to read The Seventh Function of Language because it is meant to be Binet's "magnum opus". 

I do realize it sounds ever so slightly stereotypical, but this pseudo-intellectual French novel is pompous, vainglorious, pretentious and, ultimately, plain bad. 

It's probably written so that people who like to think of themselves as erudite can giggle as they sip their port in front of their fireplace because they've just read a name that they recognize and can feel all smug about it (you've heard of Derrida, then?!? Bravo!). 

Also, my heartfelt congratulations to the author for the plain characterization of every single French intellectual of the second half of the 20th century. Over hundreds of pages I didn't manage to learn anything new about this people (and I don't know much about them, to be frank) as they are portrayed with less depth than what one would find in A Very Short Introduction to Literary Theory by Oxford University Press. 

No matter how trite is to read of Foucault as "the great bald man", it pales in comparison to the references to Camille Paglia (like her or not, she may deserve something more than just being referred to as "Cruella DeVil") or the cameo of a certain Judith - who doesn't have a second name, unfortunately, but is generally referred to as "the lesbian" (unfortunately there can't be any doubt as to who said Judith is, and I think labelling one of the greatest living American thinkers by her sexuality is something that no remotely intelligent people to the left of Trump can do). 

So to conclude: well done Binet, you've managed to stir in me the same hatred for a book that I felt for The Da Vinci Code. 

The Lock-Up - John Banville

 

Why did I read another John Banville detective story after being recently bitterly disappointed by a John Banville detective story? Chiefly because I think John Banville is one of the greatest contemporary writers and wanted to give him another chance, and because I am almost out of readable titles from the Southwark eLibrary. 

Sadly, if at all possible, I enjoyed The Lock-Up even less than I enjoyed Snow. The reason for that is essentially that, in this one, in addition to the eternally meddling Catholic church (duh) the reader also gets a wonderful peek into the world of former German Nazis and their dodgy collaborations with a state of Israel in its infancy. 

And as a matter of fact, a couple of weeks after finishing this book I don't remember much about it, other than the general feeling of "duh-ness"...

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.

Red Sorghum - Mo Yan

 

I had meant to read this book since discovering years ago a beautiful collection of short stories by Mo Yan. 

Red Sorghum ended up being very much in line with what I expected. My mother said she found it a Chinese version of Doctor Zhivago, but in all honesty I enjoyed this a fair deal more than Pasternak's book. 

A number of things were obviously "lost in translation" for me: the heroic tone of many tales, the frequent repetition of words, idioms and plot twists, and also the characters' sentimental dynamics. Yet, it brought to life a period of Chinese history that I had read about at length from a historical point of view in a way that I had not experienced before, and that to me is rather commendable. 

Capolinea Malaussène - Daniel Pennac

I spent months waiting for this book. Not an "edge of your seat" sort of wait, just a "I reserved it, but it'll take months before my library actually lends it to me" kind of wait. 

And it wasn't worth it. I thought that its predecessor (and in essence, the first instalment of this two-part novel) was arguably the best Pennac book I had ever read: wacky, but in touch with contemporary issues and trends, an interesting portrayal of the criminal underworld and a rather realistic generational conflict. 

This book still tries to have all of that, but with much diminished wackiness it just doesn't deliver. And if one removes so many of the comic aspects of Pennac, at that point all is left is a crime novel that really cannot match in any way, shape or form the best in the genre. 

Also: can a single contemporary writer close the circle of a multi-book story successfully? Pennac, Veronesi, Ali Smith, Coe (just the first four who come to mind)? Only Margaret Atwood has been able to write a sequel that left me completely satisfied based on recent memory. 

Terre Rare - Sandro Veronesi

I wonder if Veronesi thought that he would never be able to replicate the success of Caos Calmo, so he just decided to milk its main character for an unnecessary sequel. 

Mum liked this book. I respectfully disagree, at least partially. To me it's closer to the latest book by Ammaniti than it is to Caos Calmo. Same Rome, same need to throw in one of the supposed most beautiful women in Italy, same improbable (though often rather dull) encounters with minor characters. 

So, I'd class it as a harmless quick read, but would never say I liked it. 

Actually, one thing that I can truthfully and openly say that I did NOT like is the return (resurrection?) of the main character's sister-in-law, with unfinished business and unfulfilled love and career aspirations. I'd take the Roman chav that our protagonist dumps on the road any day of the week (maybe not as a life companion, but surely as a fictional character). 

Italiana - Giuseppe Catozzella

 

I'm an Italian historian who long ago stopped reading academic books on Italian history. 

This isn't an academic book, but rather a (thinly) fictionalized account of the life of Italy's most prominent female brigand around the time of the country's unification. It's commendable in its intent, being pretty much the only novel touching on the topic of brigandage that I can think of (well, there are the Roman passages of The Count of Montecristo, but they probably don't count!). 

Yet, the retelling of a historical tale is both praiseworthy and the most significant weakness of the novel. Despite the unique angle given to the book by the lives of these outlaws, Catozzella is hardly the first person to look at the poverty of the Italian South in the late 19th century, and many others have done it better. 

Happy I read it, but as far as books on outlaws are concerned, The True History of the Kelly Gang is in another league.