Baugmartner - Paul Auster

 

And thus one of my favourite authors got a book published just by virtue of being Paul Auster. 

This book has no redeeming features. It is a series of short(ish) chapters in the life of the titular character as he grows old. A lot of them look like they were put together haphazardly, and Auster most likely recycled bits and pieces of some of his previous unpublished work to put together the underwhelming story of an ageing academic. 

Auster can only be forgiven because of the tough times he's going through, but I doubt an up-and-coming writer would have been able to publish a book of this (low) calibre. 

Scheletri - Zerocalcare

 

I've read a few books by Zerocalcare, but somehow never wrote about them here (stigma against comic books, even for someone who has read a lot of them?). 

Of all the ones that I've read, this was probably the one I found most interesting (not necessarily the best, but the most interesting). It does have - as usual - its fair share of deep moments (in particular reflections in terms of what we know and what we do not know about the people around us) and light-hearted ones. 

More than anything, though, I would have liked to see something more of Secco and understand better why he is at times critical of Zerocalcare and his success (and, implicitly, his inability to deal with children, like most childless 30-something men). 

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. 

Murder Before Evensong - Richard Coles

 

Well, I guess that if I must read a run-of-the-mill crime novel every now and again (and whether I like it or not, every now and again I do have to do that...), I might as well read something by an author that I find to be at least an interesting person.

Murder Before Evensong is a well-mannered novel by someone who comes across as a well-mannered clergyman and decades ago came across as a well-mannered pop musician. It's not going to rock anyone's world, but at the very least it did not upset me as much as John Banville's crime stories mixing rural life, religion and aristocracy. 

Also, obviously, being Richard Coles, his treatment of marginalized groups (being them queer or gypsies) is really rather delicate. And the novel has enough references to pop culture to be palatable for me. 

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. 

Strong Motion - Jonathan Franzen

 

While I didn't like this book as much as The Corrections (hell, at times I think I won't ever like another 21st century American book as much as I liked The Corrections...) I was really surprised by how much I enjoyed Strong Motion and by the fact that it's not held in higher regard by critics. 

When compared to other books by Franzen, I feel that Strong Motion does religion better than Crossroads, environment better than Freedom, and historical digging better than Purity.  

At times the prose felt a bit too underdeveloped, but two passages that I felt stole the show were the initial confrontation between Reneé and reverend Stites and the crash course in the (economic) history of the United States by Louis's father. This is possibly a relatively raw and juvenile work, but really one that - in my humble opinion - deserves more attention. 

Half of a Yellow Sun - Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

 

I almost feel guilty to say that I didn't particularly like this book, considering the kind of reaction that it generated worldwide. Interestingly, the few negative opinions that I found online came from Nigerian readers. 

While I obviously agree with the main premises (Igbo people telling the stories of the impact of the Biafran War on their communities, and the fact that the world should remember the suffering it caused), I think the book ultimately lacks depth, chiefly because of how stereotypical so many characters looked. 

We have the armchair academic revolutionary (who oddly enough never talks about other revolutions - in the 1960s! - or about his academic interests), the well-meaning but out place white man, the houseboy who gets educated and reaches new heights (despite some very serious lows), a couple of cartoonish depiction of Western journalists, etc. 

The worst is the absolute perfection of Olanna, which I found rather tedious. I really wish we heard more from her twin, who to me was by far the most interesting character of the story. 

On top of that, while the context of the story was quite clearly the 1960s, I felt that the interpersonal dynamics between the main characters were much more current (in particular considering the fact that I suspect Nigeria didn't quite experience the sexual revolution of the 1960s in the same way as the Western world). 

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. 

Portrait in Sepia - Isabel Allende

 

Damn, how Allende bores me. Then again, she's sold millions of copies worldwide, has plenty of admirers and, when the ebook offer is limited (and at Southwark we're really down to a handful of potentially readable titles for me), beggars can't be choosers. 

I guess the overarching positive is that, by setting this story in the 19th century, she couldn't remind the readers of the importance of Salvador Allende, the dark years of the Pinochet dictatorship etc. 

What she could do though, was cover her novel with the standard romantic patina, the usual empowered rich heroines who defy odds (real or imaginary) to carve their own path, and the habitual love triangles and tangles. 

It's probably quite telling that the part of this story that I enjoyed the most was actually the one set in San Francisco and the interplay between immigrants of various races there - her always identical takes on Chile and its idiosyncrasies just leave me profoundly unmoved.  

A Legacy of Spies - John le Carré

 

And after complaining about Jonathan Coe, Ali Smith and Ian McEwan for their attempts to either bring their sagas full circle, or to write omni-comprehensive books to capture decades' worth of British history, here comes le Carré and swiftly succeeds where so many of my favourite contemporary British authors failed. 

Granted, it may be an easy exercise for a brilliant writer to play on his readers' nostalgia, to largely repeat plot devices that worked for literally dozens of his novels before, and to essentially spend half of his time making reference to his previous novels. 

Yet, this is a superb way to settle the unanswered questions from The Spy Who Came from the Cold and to add another further layer to George Smiley while painting him as considerably less unblemished than in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

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. 

Red Pill - Hari Kunzru

 

For once, I actually picked up a hard copy book from the Southwark Library (mostly out of surprise for seeing a couple of Kunzru titles in a library that is otherwise not crazily well-stocked, and that's obviously an understatement). 

Unfortunately this was my least-favourite Hari Kunzru novel. The dystopian present setting plus mental breakdown reminded me a bit too much of a relatively disappointing Paul Auster novel. 

I also thought that the autobiographical writing was one of the great problems with wanna-be writers, but ultimately there are too many aspects of Red Pill that appear too reflective of Kunrzu's life. I just hope for his own sake he's a bit happier than this literary alter-ego of his. 

The Lock-Up - John Banville

 

Why did I read another John Banville detective story after being recently bitterly disappointed by a John Banville detective story? Chiefly because I think John Banville is one of the greatest contemporary writers and wanted to give him another chance, and because I am almost out of readable titles from the Southwark eLibrary. 

Sadly, if at all possible, I enjoyed The Lock-Up even less than I enjoyed Snow. The reason for that is essentially that, in this one, in addition to the eternally meddling Catholic church (duh) the reader also gets a wonderful peek into the world of former German Nazis and their dodgy collaborations with a state of Israel in its infancy. 

And as a matter of fact, a couple of weeks after finishing this book I don't remember much about it, other than the general feeling of "duh-ness"...

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. 

Perspective(s) - Laurent Binet

My boss gave me this book as she believes I can read French well and easily. That's a lie, at least partially. It had been years since I had last read anything more than a page in the language, and being able to read a whole book was a great ego-boost. Sure, being familiar with the setting helped, but I’m still rather happy to have read a whole novel in my (non-existing) fourth language.

Before moving on to what I liked about it, let me mention two things that I wasn’t entirely sold on, in the most classic of “feedback sandwiches”.

1. The premise: I cannot suspend my belief enough to buy into the author finding these letters in an antiques shop. They wouldn’t be just “yellowed” with time, they would be falling to pieces. They also wouldn’t offer so complete an account (also: what conspirators save their entire correspondence?!?). I do realize it’s a bit unfair of me to compare a good book like this one to one of the greatest works of the 20th century, but in Il Nome della Rosa Umberto Eco frames everything so much better, openly admitting that he had to do a lot of further research and put in much guesswork in order to fill the huge gaps left by the sources he had stumbled upon.

2. Anachronisms: a lot of things went over my head because my French is what it is, but at times I felt like 16th century Italians wouldn’t really talk/write like that. Often this was just a feeling of mine, but at times it felt more tangible (like when Maria writes that she wouldn’t want to run away from Florence like a “bohémienne”)

Having said that, I loved the characterization of Vasari. I find him unlikeable, but he steals the show. And the many snide comments about other artists perfectly highlight how he (and his biases – positive and negative) influenced the way in which I, and the world in general, think about the art of the period. Michelangelo is the one I could have done without, as I think it’s a bit of an easy escamotage to have the most known name in the story act as the Deus ex machina pretty much raiding Florence from Rome.

The book’s biggest success for me is the way in which it made me long for Florence. It perfectly captures the spirit of the city (and often of the time) in what is probably the most sincere declaration of literary love for the Italian Renaissance that I’ve come across since reading Ali Smith’s How To Be Both almost a decade ago.