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. 

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).

Fahrenheit 451 – Ray Bradbury

I wonder whether, when he wrote this, Bradbury had actually predicted how little the world would have come to care about books by the start of the 21^st century. This dystopian novel was written at a time when the market wasn’t yet saturated with dystopian novels, and the idea of re-thinking the role of the firemen is undeniably a stroke of genius.

Having seen Truffaut’s movie before reading the book, I would have expected it to have a much more rigid structure and style. I also expected it to be dated, but I was wrong. Lastly, I also wasn’t expecting the book to scare me, but the mechanical dog is one of the most frightening creations I’ve ever come across.

Fahrenheit 451 remains a seminal book in the literature of the 20^th century. I am just afraid that in the near future we won’t need firemen to dispose of our books, we’ll happily throw them away ourselves.

Lessico Famigliare – Natalia Ginzburg

Another book that I’ve read to feel like I was doing something related to my Ph.D. thesis when, in fact, I was simply reading for fun (much, much more enjoyable!).

Before reading the book I only thought of Natalia as Leone Ginzburg’s wife. Needless to say, the book made me change my outlook. A unique novel/memoir mixing History with a capital “H” and personal histories, the book covers the time-span between the rise of Fascism and the early 1950s. Oddly enough, for once, I didn’t lose interest after the end of WWII – unlike with so many other books, including staples of 20^th century European literature like The Tin Drum.

Apparently it’s enough for a book to be about the fight against Fascism for me to like it, but this (like, erm, all the other books on anti-Fascism?!?) hold a special place in my heart.