In Ogni Caso Nessun Rimorso – Pino Cacucci

Cacucci is one of those really good (not great, but really good) Italian writers whose existence somehow is often forgotten by the country’s shrinking readership. He has written fiction (Puerto Escondido is a funny little gem) as well as fictionalized history books, like this one about Jules Bonnot and the Bonnot Gang at the turn of the century.

The novel alternates fictionalized descriptions of Bonnot’s life to frequent extracts from anarchist writing (it is also the novel which introduced me to Max Stirner: until I was 16 I was convinced that Bakunin had been the only actual anarchist philosopher). It is a beautiful attempt to again give importance to the small defeated of history (the big ones are still remembered, the small ones are quickly forgotten). More people should read this book (even if it’s just to realize who were the members of the first criminal gang to use a car), but even in this case more people won’t.

La Storia – Elsa Morante

A book from a time when Italian literature was worthy of that name. This “history” book is, for once, not about Fascism – although the bulk of the novel takes place during the years of the Second World War it has very little to do with a political commentary of the dictatorship.

It is different from many novels in which personal histories overlap with the great events of history, mostly because of the disarming simplicity of the lives of the two main characters (something that doesn’t lose its appeal even after more than 500 pages) and because the book is not an epic family history, and Useppe and Ida are not the charismatic and inspiring leaders of tightly-knit family clans, but rather two tiny figures essentially alone in the world.

The book is touching in a way that I never experienced before, and one of the few instances in which I was able to appreciate the uniquely feminine touch of the author.  

One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel García Márquez

I read this book when I was 16, on a school trip in which I was trying to get my mind off of the girl who was destroying my heart (or maybe I was doing it to prove to her how much of an intellectual I was – either way, it didn’t work).

To this day, there are still so many passages that I quote time and again: the discovery of ice, Remedios ascending to heaven, Mauricio Babilonia’s butterflies, the seventeen Aurelianos, everything around Melquiades, José Arcadio’s chestnut tree, and countless others.

And still this isn’t a book that I would like to re-read. I’m not sure if it’s just me or magical realism is generally out-grown by the time one turns 25. It’s one of my favourite books, yet I’m afraid that revisiting it might destroy my memories of it.

Il Partigiano Johnny – Beppe Fenoglio

This blog is making me realize how many books I’ve read about the Italian Resistance and, in general, about the fight against Fascism. This book, however, is probably my favourite one of all. And I am not just talking about books on anti-Fascism, I am talking about all the books ever written all over the world.

Of course, even in this case, I am dreadfully biased. The book is all set in the towns and on the hills where I’ve grown up. But, even as I try to be remotely objective about it, I think it’s an absolute work of art: the prose, mixing Italian and English, is still innovative even after 50 years, Fenoglio weaves global history, local history, and personal histories (fictionalized or not) with an inimitable display of skills and even the smaller characters manage to leave a lasting impression in the minds of the readers.

And I might be naive, or simply in denial, but I don’t think the ending is so obvious as most people take it to be.

The Golden Age – Gore Vidal

This was my first encounter with Gore Vidal – arguably I shouldn’t have started from the last book of his Narratives of Empire, but hey. As a historian of the 20^th century, I had great expectations form this novel. Surely, it does offer an interesting angle to the presidency of FDR, and is undoubtedly very daring when it tries to debunk the myth of one of the most loved presidents in American history.

The problem is that Vidal himself appears to me as a rather awful man: he and his grandfather are portrayed as always the most acute observers, the best thinkers, and, ultimately, the great owners of the world’s truths.

I just hate it when people use their art to glorify themselves, be that Gore Vidal or Julian Schnabel (I still can’t get over the way he portrayed himself in Basquiat – and I also think that Gary Oldman, who played Schanbel in the movie, is way better looking than him).