Cartongesso – Francesco Maino

A book that I’ve read over the weekend as I found myself in the Italian north-east (where the novel is set) for a wedding.

Maino’s first novel has been fairly widely acclaimed (I mean, as widely acclaimed as an Italian novel can be…) and with this the author won the Italo Calvino Award. To me, that’s definite proof of the desperate scarcity of young Italian literary talent.

The novel is interesting for about 30 pages, then the stream of consciousness grows predictably stagnant (seriously, isn’t it outdated as a literary device/style at this point?!?) and the reader realizes that the book doesn’t even have a hint of a storyline (and as a rant against the system it gets to be fairly boring fairly quickly).

That said, I have to give credit where credit is due, and I have to admit that I really enjoyed Maino’s cultural references (Hemingway’s Across the River and Into the Trees, Thelonious Monk, Giorgio Morandi – an artist who has to be “respected” if not necessarily “loved” – and, most of all, Drazen Petrovic). Yet, this is not enough to make me say that I liked the book.

Plenty of Italian readers will disagree and tell me that I don’t understand the subtlety and the actuality of this novel. Maybe that’s true, but I also think that most of them read about 3 books a year. 

The Almost Moon – Alice Sebold

A book that my mum bought for 1£ at the Red House in Bexleyheath, I’m so very proud of her…

Like most critics, I found the novel’s opening sentence to be nothing short of awesome. Unlike a number of critics, however, I did think the novel was really good. As far as I could see, the portrayal of Helen, the main character (and parricide), was criticized for being morally and intellectually incoherent – but that’s what I thought was great, as I suppose the mind of a daughter who has just killed her mother must be at least slightly shaken.

I also found the characterization of the love-hate relationship between daughter and mother to be rather believable (and, I assume, accurate), and, in all honesty, I sort of justified Helen (does that make me an awful person or a psychopath? I hope not, and I actually think I’m rather sane, much like Helen’s former husband thinks of her).

Most of all, the novel raises all sorts of questions about the need in our society to work so terribly hard to keep the elderly alive – I wish we could just let them go (although if we think they need a push, admittedly this can be done in a better way!). 

The Goldfinch – Donna Tartt

There is nothing wrong with reading a best-seller every now and again. In particular one that has won the Pulitzer Prize. In particular one that was bought for 2 cheeky pounds.

However, there are plenty of things that I think are wrong with this particular book: it’s long; Donna Tartt spends the first 400 pages of it essentially trying to persuade the reader of how good-natured the main character is before making his dramatic entry into the criminal underworld (and the fact that it essentially jumps from Theo’s return from Vegas straight into his shady dealings makes you wonder what he has actually done in the meantime – it’s not quite like what’s happened to Jesus between the age of 12 and 30, but almost…), and most of all the ending, with its banal comments about life, its meaning, and its shortness, is so trite that I actually really struggled to read that final chapter.

On the plus side, though, the art comments are really interesting, but probably that’s because I’m Italian and, never having had much time for Dutch and Flemish art, most of those were actually new to me…

Still, I have to recognize that this is a book that has to be read. And, at least in my case, one that should be pretty much forgotten once it’s over. 

Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoevsky

I figured my best chance of reading (and understanding) Crime and Punishment was to power through it over the long Easter weekend. I thought my mind was going to be blown away. Much to my surprise, it wasn't. 

The problem was that I didn't care about what happened to Raskolnikov. He could turn himself in, he could be found, he could run away - it just didn't matter to me. His mental lapses, his guilt (or lack thereof), his rants left me rather unmoved. And - to make matters worse - I also kept on thinking about Martin Cruz Smith's Arkady Renko (yes, I know I'm linking one of the universally recognized greatest novels ever written to a 1980s trashy - but oh so good - best-seller!) and his comments about the triviality of Russian murders... And the epilogue - with the promised redemption - upset me a fair bit with its cheesiness. 

The only moments in which I actually liked Raskolnikov where the ones in which he came to the realization that he is not a Übermensch (where he appeared not just like a human being, but like one who might deserve some sympathy). And I felt that my favourite character - Svidrigailov - was not given the attention (and the space) he deserved - his story was the one that deserved to be told in minute detail, in my humble opinion...

Song of Solomon – Toni Morrison

Not quite sure why I read Beloved before reading Song of Solomon. Well, not true. I read Beloved first because somebody left it in by building’s reception while I actually had to buy Song of Solomon…

I do realize that what I’m about to write is ground-breaking and has never been thought (let alone said) before, but Song of Solomon is an absolutely outstanding book. Sure, looking for material wealth and finding one’s true roots instead is the oldest literary topos, but this novel explores it so very well.

And, much like in all (very good) epic family stories, the anecdotes that are passed down from generation to generation are truly wonderful. And, much like in all (very good) epic family stories, wisdom is dispensed by old characters who have understood everything in life (here Pilate reminds me in part of Marquez’s Pilar Tenera and in part of Richler’s Ephraim Gursky).

And when Milkman thinks of his people and includes Jelly Roll, Bo Diddley, Fats and B.B. it’s very much like in Good Morning Babylon the two brothers tell some Hollywood types that they are the sons of the sons of the sons of Michelangelo and Leonardo (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ISEw_yf8-o apologies, the audio is only in Italian). 

Oracle Night – Paul Auster

Another solid 30p buy from the Barbican Library’s overstock titles. On its cover it has a line from its Herald’s review saying “If you have never read Auster before … this is the place to start”. True that. The issue, however, is that if you have read plenty of Auster before, this is quite far from being a particularly original work.

Sure, it’s beautifully written like all of Auster’s novels, and it’s also gripping and nerve-wrecking as only his stories can be, but everything in it has already been seen: the Sisyphean task of reorganizing phone books reminds the reader of the wall of The Music of Chance, the inability of a writer to proceed with his work is, well, just like pretty much every other novel Auster has ever written, the importance of colours (like team Blue) echoes The New York Trilogy, and both the in-house aggression and Nick’s story within the story and his slow but inevitable death look very much like scenes and anecdotes taken from Smoke.

This remains a really good read, and, I agree, it would be a great introduction to Auster’s world, but it’s not exactly ground-breaking. To give credit where credit is due, however, the little side-stories that the author develops in his page-long footnotes are truly great. 

Caos Calmo – Sandro Veronesi

I found a hardback edition of this Italian best-seller in the foreign-language section of Waterstones for 1£ - a few more finds like these and my National Book Tokens will last me a lifetime...

This novel is beautifully banal. Obviously everyone has a different way of dealing with the death of a lover. Obviously children are extremely resourceful. Obviously all families, even the ones that look picture-perfect from the outside, are messed up in one way or another (well, except for mine!). Obviously corporate greed is evil. Obviously people have their secrets.

And yet, for all its banality (and the dullness of many of its cultural reference-points), this book is extremely well-written and remarkably enjoyable.

That said, I would have preferred if the main character hadn’t started thinking that his dead lover was sending him post-mortem messages through Thom Yorke’s voice...

The Master of Petersburg – J.M. Coetzee

A book I had never heard of and that I picked up among the remainders in the holy Waterstones on Torrington Place because a) it was cheap, b) I have plenty of money from the National Book Tokens to spend (thanks to a particularly thoughtful boss), c) I loved Disgrace by Coetzee, d) I loved Dostoevsky’s Demons.

The thing is, I liked the idea of the novel way more than I liked the novel itself. I found Coetzee’s usually wonderful prose too cumbersome here (of course, he has to give voice to Dostoevsky!), felt that all the characters (including Dostoevsky himself) were rather uninteresting, and just struggled with those 200-odd pages of divagations on life and death.

Clearly this book has made me want to read more Dostoevsky (which I probably will during the Easter holiday – I need to do it outside of term-time otherwise I won’t be able to focus sufficiently to understand his deep message, or even just the Russian names!), but to me it was just a novel with great premises and a (predictably) underwhelming development.

Gorky Park – Martin Cruz Smith

The greatest book ever written. Seriously.

Well, maybe not.

But without a doubt one of the most enthralling crime novels I’ve ever read. Sure, it does have its fair share of problems (for instance the fact that every time I saw the main character’s name “Arkady” I actually mistakenly read “Already” – and it does get annoying over the course of 560 pages! – or the fact that from the very beginning it is quite clear that the evil Pribluda isn’t going to kill our hero, and isn’t even going to be his main antagonist), but it remains pure entertainment.

It’s also really interesting reading it through Cold War lenses: the impeccably dressed FBI agents against their clumsy Soviet counterpart, Irina’s beauty ruined forever by KGB actions, but her marks can be masked with American make-up (something that reminded me of “James Bond's "Pussy" and Anglo-American Cold War Sexuality”, one of the most interesting academic articles I’ve ever read). 

But most of all, now I know a lot more about furs…

Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me – Javier Marías

This time a book that my dad tried to get me to read for years (and I’ve only done it now because, rather surprisingly, its author is coming to speak at the LSE – not a school known for its love for literature! – next week).

The novel is beautifully written, and the starting idea (the unexpected death of an almost stranger in the arms of the narrator) is a majestic literary device. The constant references and quotes are intriguing if a tad bit too high-brow (I didn’t get any of them, except perhaps the tailing of Luisa – the sister of his dead lover – through the streets of Madrid as maybe a reference to Hitchcock’s Vertigo).

But (there is always a but) after a while the book gets slightly too repetitive. Yes, life is weird and goes in circles, but there is no need to repeat the same sentences a number of times (the first time you do that it’s interesting, after a while it just grows old). Most of all, because of these constant circular references, I just didn’t find the surprising finale that surprising, which was a bit of a shame and left me rather unmoved (speaking of cultural references, The Big Bang Theory’s treatment of Schrödinger's cat is definitely more interesting, and also undoubtedly funnier!). 

The Cement Garden – Ian McEwan

I remember the old times, when reading McEwan (to me) meant reading stories of privileged beautiful people and how they would be able to overcome whatever obstacle they encountered and return to their posh lives before the end of the novel.  As Bob Dylan used to sing, however, The Times They’re a-Changin’

The Cement Garden is an absolutely great read. And weird. And disturbing. I wouldn’t even know how to classify it: it’s not a horror novel, or at least I don’t think so, yet it does give you goose bumps in so many ways. Its effect on me was similar to that of Doris Lessing’s The Fifth Child or Beryl Bainbridge’s Harriet Said... And much like those books, it’s not something that I would particularly encourage my pregnant wife to read.

And yes, my wife is pregnant. And this is also kind of a test to see how many (if any) of my real-life friends actually read this little blog…

Gods Without Men – Hari Kunzru

The great thing about young writers is that you can be all smug and unreasonably proud for reading their complete works, or at least all their fiction books (as it’s the case for me and Kunrzu). Let’s just ignore the fact that at the end of the day Kunzru has only written four novels so far.

To me, nothing will ever equal the impact and the depth of My Revolutions, but Gods Without Men was a lot more enjoyable than The Impressionist (I liked it pretty much as much as I liked Transmissions, with the sentimental sections in this case replaced by wacky but entertaining mystic ones). The book has been compared to works by David Mitchell and Kurt Vonnegut, but I actually saw quite a lot of Philip Roth (American Pastoral) and Don DeLillo (White Noise).

As usual, Kunzru writes beautifully, and succeeds in making the story of Jaz and Lisa gripping and touching (In particular when he describes their lives in the public eye). However, I have the feeling that some of the characters are slightly too stereotyped (in particular the nerdy Jaz and the British Nicky, who just uses a few British idioms too many to be fully credible). 

The mysteries of the afterlife don’t interest me. Kunzru’s recounting of them, however, does. 

Group Portrait with Lady - Heinrich Böll

One of those books that I literally couldn’t put down (well, if you ask my wife, that’s about any book, except for the remarkably bad ones that I am forced to read for my office’s book club – this month was the turn of The Little Coffee Shop of Kabul, the most offensively patronizing piece of poo poo I’ve ever read, seriously!).

Back on topic. The novel is clearly, yet again, about WWII and Nazifascism (amongst other things). Its approach (a literary mockumentary?) remains hilarious and alternative more than forty years after the book’s publication. In the novel Böll manages to write, always with a hint of irony, some of the most touching pages I’ve ever read (in particular the coffee scene and the singing by Boris, the Soviet POW and real love of Leni’s life) and simultaneously throw in some remarkably humorous comments (at a certain point the author’s research was delayed by his watching the Clay-Frazier fight…).

And the idea that the entire book revolves not just around a normal person, but around one who says so little about herself that it can be contained in one quick page in the middle of the book, is, in my humble opinion, an absolute stroke of genius. Well, that’s actually not just my humble opinion probably; Böll did receive the Nobel Prize after Group Portrait with Lady after all…

The Paper Men – William Golding

I thought that Golding had essentially only written The Lord of the Flies. Turns out I was wrong (and, as a matter of fact, I ended up enjoying The Paper Men a lot more than his supposed masterpiece).

At times the novel is almost an early and less polished version of Barney’s Version (apologies for the multiple “versions” there) – the same kind of rant given by a very interesting man clearly not in full control of his mind. Being old, rude, and blunt the narrator also doesn’t have an idyllic view of Italy, something that, needless to say, feels like a welcome departure from the delightful picture painted by so many writers since, well, since forever…

The figure of Rick Tucker is so very sad to me. I’m not quite sure whether my mental picture of him is even more miserable than the one most readers must have because of my own struggles with(in) the academic world. But, hey, at least I’m really glad that he ends the story the way he does…

One thing, though, remains ultimately unclear to me: why would anyone care that much about the biography of a writer? I mean, it’s not like writers are important figures in today’s world, or that a book like that is likely to sell. If I was as rich as Tucker’s “benefactor”, I would just buy the author and force him to tell me the story of his life rather than hiring someone else to do try to do that for me…

The Page Turner – David Leavitt

The random books one ends up reading when one (or one’s wife) picks up a large pile of novels primarily because they are free. My parents had been talking for years about While England Sleeps, so I figured I should give Leavitt a try.

It was an enjoyable and remarkably light read. The one issue, though, is that I really didn’t find much in the book that I could relate to: as an Italian expat with very little intention of ever going back to the country I didn’t really find anything too magic in the – rather standard – poetic and idyllic descriptions of Rome; as the stereotypical manly heterosexual man, I found little interest in the heady journey of sexual discovery of the main character; and as a spoiled only child who always got along rather well with his mother, I had very little interest in the relatively problematic relationship between the titular Page Turner and his mom.

So yeah, a good book to read on a Sunday afternoon while one is trying not to think of the state of his legs after running 18 miles (damn marathon training…), but that’s about it for me…