The Notebook Trilogy - Ágota Kristóf

 

Yet another Hungarian book (well, a trilogy) and one that for two thirds was absolutely mind-blowing. 

The first book, with the twins' penchant for self-discipline, their unique view of the world and their twisted ethic, was an absolute work of art finishing with the most dramatic couple of lines I've read in a long, long time when one of them crosses the border. 

The second book was softer, but revealed unexpected elements of depth in the character of one of the twins, and also acted as a very interesting depiction of an unnamed country (well, Hungary) during the Cold War. 

But the revelation of the lie in the third book, instead of adding a further element of intrigue, it unfortunately made me lose interest in the trilogy, and actually left me rather disappointed after having been so enthralled by what I believed were the true elements of the first two books. 

La Ricreazione E' Finita - Dario Ferrari

I got this book thinking it'd be a (reasonably) pleasant light read that would leave no lasting memory. Said assumption was motivated by the synopsis on the novel's jacket presenting the main character as a symbol of the generation of the pseudo-promising pseudo-young pseudo-intellectuals that fill the Italian universities on precarious contracts. So something that was bound to resonate with me, but also something that I've heard so much about that was quite unlikely to find this book particularly interesting and novel. 

Clearly, I was in for a big surprise. The sections on the beginning of the protagonist's doctorate are pleasant and fresh (and his web of relationships made me think of Eshkol Nevo's World Cup Wishes), but the detailed story of the fictional writer/terrorist that he ends up researching is something that absolutely steals the scene. 

Sure, I could have done without some things (I would have loved for the main character to also interact with some non-Italians in Paris - man, do my people ever leave their country, even when they cross its borders?!? - and his infatuation for the pretty younger girl in the second half of the book leaves a lot to be desired), but the final pages, with a twist that I definitely did not see coming, make up for any  minor shortcoming. 

The Book of Illusions – Paul Auster

Quite possibly the best Paul Auster novel I’ve ever read, and I don’t say this lightly.  

Hector Mann, the real protagonist of the book, is as mysterious and fascinating a figure as Master Yehudi in Mr Vertigo (and his bizarre career path post-acting reminds one of Walt’s life in the same book). The love story between the narrator and Alma is a thing of beautiful delicacy, and by the end of the book the reader is happy to know that Zimmer has moved on, but also that he sees no need to tell us anything about who has taken Alma’s place. And it is always refreshing to read an Auster novel that is not set in New York (despite the fact that Zimmer lives there for a while, accidentally in Brooklyn – who would have ever thought…).

The fact that Auster went through the trouble of inventing not just a character, but also his movie plots and his entire body of work, is something that deserves a literary standing ovation (and they’re so realistic that I actually had to look up Hector Mann on Wikipedia, thinking he was a real – if a bit obscure – figure of the silent film era that I had never heard of…). 

Se Una Notte d’Inverno un Viaggiatore – Italo Calvino

Another book by Calvino that is typically Calvinoesque: a cute love story, absurd situations, and the constant feeling that the author is just playing around with the reader, worried more about style and form than anything else.

Like often happens with Calvino, I got lost in his Pindaric flights. I assume that, to a very large extent, that’s exactly what the author wanted. That, however, is not exactly what I want in a book. I’m just too grounded in reality and I want a plot that, for intricate that it might be, is still logic and plausible.

Granted, realizing that he was playing around with the titles of the various chapters/short stories was actually quite fun, even for me. Yet, I wish Calvino spent a little less time patting himself on his own shoulders and congratulating himself on being such a gifted writer. Don’t get me wrong: he was undoubtedly incredibly gifted, I would just like to see a more immediate deep plot rather than an absolute perfect form (and, in this case, a perfect frame from the book).