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. 

The Centaur - John Updike

 

After years without doing it, I went to the Barbican library and picked up this book for 30p. I was very pleased to see that inflation hadn't caught up quite yet (though perhaps books used to sell for 20p back in the day?!?). 

Having only ever read Rabbit, Run I was very happy to read another book by Updike and The Centaur did prove to be a remarkably good pick-up. 

I most definitely don't know Greek mythology well enough to understand all the parallels (and find the novel excessively pretentious as a result), but I do know a hypocondriac father when I see one, remain a sucker for suburban American settings, and think that there is nothing better than a good campus novel. 

Life & Times of Michael K - J.M. Coetzee

Another book that I got from my neighbour's donation box. Though in this case I didn't confuse Coetzee with someone else, in the same vein as I had confused Bulgakov and Nabokov. 

I thoroughly enjoyed Life & Times of Michael K. I didn't find the description of Michael's thought process to be heavy-handed or patronizing; rather, I found them to be a great reflection of the depth of a man who is judged by other people because of his appearance and has come to internalize many of those judgements. 

Much like with Disgrace, I found Coetzee's description of divisions in South Africa to be more immediately believable in its rawness than Nadine Godimer's (then again, perhaps I should read more South African authors to actually have a better appreciation of their literary heritage eh...). 

Some of the more dream-like sequences reminded me of his Jesus trilogy, though perhaps given the setting I found them much easier to digest. 

Cose Che Non Si Raccontano - Antonella Lattanzi

This is a book that I decided to read when I became line manager for 11 (reasonably) young women (and 1 man - who would have thought, the academic third space is ever so slightly female dominated...) and figured out I might as well read up on some of the challenges they might be facing. 

And wow, this was a tough read. I didn't even pay much attention to how well-written (or not) the book was, as its treatment of the author's medical and psychological issues was the only thing I could really focus on. 

A few chapters in, I quickly stopped mentally telling the author to be more resilient and/or get to the point, and actually came to appreciate her own openness and most of all the intellectual honesty with which she described her own physical and mental processes. 

I still don't quite know whether I "liked" the book or not, though I'd like to believe that it made me better at managing challenging conversations. 

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...

Lucy by the Sea - Elizabeth Strout

 

I feel like I have written this before, but while I very much love the writing of Elizabeth Strout and the atmosphere that she is able to create with her books, all of them - perhaps with the exception of the ones about Olive Kitteridge - blur into one. Lucy by the Sea was a clear demonstration of that, as I remembered having read My Name Is Lucy Barton, but in spite of its title I couldn't for the life of me recall who Lucy Barton actually was...

I have yet to find a book whose handling of the recent pandemic I find compelling, perhaps because it's something that we have all lived through. On the plus side, at least this book was a clear upgrade compared to the rather miserable Day by Michael Cunningham. 

What I did like about this book, though, was the narrative arch of William (Lucy's husband). I must confess I was rather ticked off by the brave "knight in shining armour" (who at the same time has the foresight of "the stoic man of science"), but in the last few chapters it was really interesting to see his own daughters discuss with Lucy the probable selfish reasons behind some of his actions, and Lucy recognizing them - perhaps having known that was the case all along, and reclaiming her own agency.  

Prophet Song - Paul Lynch

Every now and again I have to read a dystopian novel. And every now and again I have to be reminded that I don't really love them. Unless they are The Road. 

Prophet Song is undeniably good, but the fact that the dynamics of the frictions between the two warring factions are never discussed (the novel begins as the situation is already beginning to spiral out of control, with almost no explanations) made it quite hard for me to "buy into" the book. 

That said, I really was impressed by how the author makes the reader realize that so many of the main characters' decisions are, ultimately, wrong, yet dramatically understandable and justifiable. 

Sono Mancato all'Affetto dei Miei Cari -Andrea Vitali

File this under "Italian book read because the title was appealing" (in this case the loose translation is "I died and left my loved ones"). Also file this under "very low expectation, and just read for harmless entertainment". 

If anything, the book did give me something more than I was expecting (which really wasn't much). It is quite well-written, and ultimately does a good job of explaining the position of everyone in this clashing family and how everyone is both in the right and in the wrong most of the time. 

Bonus points for not pretending that the narrator's death at the end was a surprise (it was in the title!) malus points for having a dead man narrating the story (for me it didn't work in Sunset Boulevard, it was unlikely that it would work here...). 
 

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). 

My Family and Other Animals - Gerald Durrell

Not really a book I would have ever picked, but hey, we went to a wedding in Corfu and the reception was held in the location that had been used to film the TV series about the Durrells, so why not...

I do understand that lazy days on the Mediterranean and expat family life can be very appealing to certain readers, but this really isn't for me. I just didn't have much time for the explorations of local mountains and bushes, or for the poetically stereotypical Greek characters on the island. And the lives of very wealthy and entitled Brits hasn't been interestingly dissected since E.M. Forster. 

Also, for a book of this length and levity, it took me a surprisingly long time to finish it, which really can't be a good sign. 

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. 

Last Night in Twister River - John Irving

 

Reading three hefty books by the same author over the span of a couple of months is too much, and it's probably partly because of that that Last Night in Twisted River is my least favourite John Irving book so far. 

In part, it's also because the main character (Danny) is ultimately quite dull if compared to the plethora of interesting people he is surrounded by (obviously his dad and Ketchum, but also Six-pack Pam, Jane, and his mother). He's an observer, overly-attached to his father, and doesn't really seem particularly able to take decisions and make things happen (rather, things happen to him). 

Also, I didn't quite buy into his becoming a great writer - too much of his writing is too auto-biographical and not inventive enough to suggest that he's someone who can encounter worldwide success. In addition, once the "cowboy" finds the two Baciagalupo, the story immediately loses momentum, and the long wait for Lady Sky is not enough to prop up multiple flat chapters. 

Olive, Again - Elizabeth Strout

 

After the disappointment of My Name Is Lucy Barton I had fairly low expectations from this sequel to Olive Kitteridge. 

Turns out, if anything this book is actually better. As Olive ages, some traits of her character become sharper while others turn more mellow, chickens come home to roost in terms of her family relations and post (first) widowhood love life, and in general the anecdotes and stories that are intertwined in the book are always extremely profound (despite being covered over just a handful of pages). 

I actually had to remind myself multiple times that Strout was still (relatively) young when she wrote Olive, Again since she writes about the ageing process with such tact and credibility. And to be honest I probably enjoyed this book so much because Olive reminds me more and more of my cantankerous grandmother. 

My Name Is Lucy Barton - Elizabeth Strout

 

Out of the - now limited - range of titles that the Southwark eLibrary offers these days, there are a few Lucy Barton books. I have tried not to read them in too quick a succession, and it's largely proved the be the right call. 

While Strout remains a great story-teller, the feelings she leaves me with are always the same (even when her plots are different). The problem is that after a while the returns diminish, and the above-mentioned feelings get diluted. I was mind-blown by Strout's prose the first time I read one of her books, now I just read them as a pleasant intermission between books that I find either more engaging or more substantial. 

I also have to admit that one of the reasons why I didn't particularly enjoy this book is my inability to understand a character who has such a troubled relationship with her mom because, like all good Italian kids, I love my mamma. 

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). 

Thus Bad Begins - Javier Marías

 

Marías came to do a talk at LSE shortly after Thus Bad Begins some seven years ago. I didn't feel the desperate urge to buy the book and get it signed at the end (instead opting for A Heart So White) and I'm happy to report that my hunch was correct. 

Perfectly flowing prose can only take you so far when the mysteries and secrets surrounding the characters are not particularly interesting (and the final revelations not excessively surprising). The fact that I read this book right after reading another underwhelming one with a much anticipated suicide at the centre (A Little Life) also didn't help. 

Or maybe I just prefer my own kind of Mediterranean fascists, as I often find Italian books discussing the prolonged influence of our regime on our current society much more interesting. 

His Illegal Self - Peter Carey

 

This book was OK, which is a pretty sad statement for anything written by Peter Carey, but hey, you can't write something Booker-worthy every time. 

His Illegal Self  has a wild and pyrotechnic beginning, but once the actions shifts to Australia and the secrets of Che's "mom" are uncovered (a bit late to cause significant shockwaves) the book appears to settle, which is bizarre considering that I was expecting Carey to be - quite literally - at home there. 

And the ragtag Australian hippies are on the whole rather boring (or maybe it's just the nature of their anachronistically alternative lifestyle that doesn't attract me anymore?) and quite caricatural, which makes for many dull passages spent discussing the present and future of a former stray cat.  

Cronache del Mal d'Amore - Elena Ferrante

  

At some point I had to read something by the mysterious Elena Ferrante, and I opted for her oginial trilogy. 

These are three books coated in mystery, lies and journeys of self-discovery. Books that made me feel the brackishness of the water that some of the characters swim into and that initially left me wondering what would happen to the characters after the novels ended. 

Unfortunately, though, they are also books that gave me long-lasting feelings but whose plots weren't memorable. I just had to look them up on Wikipedia again, and this is surely not a good sign.

L'Uomo Verticale - Davide Longo

 

What a great dystopian novel. I'm increasingly persuaded that Davide Longo is one of the very few Italian writers able to both write well and actually interest me. L'Uomo Verticale shows us a country literally going to the dogs (unlike many other similar novels that seem to start in a setting already looking post-apocalyptic) and the quest for survival of a father and his improbable extended family. 

Or, if you are familiar with McCarthy and The Road: been there, done that. Half of the ideas of this book are more ore less openly borrowed (and/or they are a tribute from Longo to one of his favourite authors), including the relationship between a father and his child and the desperate attempts to get to the sea at all costs. 

A really good read though. Just not an original one after all.