Il Fu Mattia Pascal – Luigi Pirandello

One of those books that Italian students are forced to read (and hate) in their final year of high-school. Luckily I had left for Canada by then, and only read Il Fu Mattia Pascal well after the end of my Ph.D. I wouldn’t say that I loved it (nobody in his/her same mind could love this book), but I did definitely enjoy it more than what I expected.

Much of the book is set in the towns on the Italian Riviera where I used to go to when I was a kid, and I loved that. Despite the fact that, like pretty much every other Italian, I already knew the plot and at least a number of its twists, the book was still a nice read.

And call me romantic (something which I’m really not), but I like the fact that book goes full circle, and that the main character ends up feeling the call of his own hometown.

Nausea – Jean Paul Sartre

It took me years to read my first novel by Sartre. I blame it on the (mutual) dislike for my high-school philosophy teacher and his classes on existentialism (disclaimer: he was a great teacher, but wasn’t particularly nice to me and my then girlfriend – the same girl I ended up marrying).

Despite its title, Nausea is a really enjoyable book. Much to my surprise, its apathy doesn’t rub onto the reader, and I actually managed to appreciate its deep and reflective passages a lot more than I would have expected.

And I was a big fan of the Autodidact (probably because I like to think of myself as having a similar approach to my cultural growth), but I really wish he would keep his hands in their place...

The Blue Flowers – Raymond Queneau

As every good (continental) European middle school student, I’ve spent long weeks reading Queneau’s Exercises in Style – pages and pages of the same 15-20 lines repeated using different adjectives, or a different tone, or different punctuation, whatever. Probably that’s the reason why I hated him to begin with.

The Blue Flowers is not a bad book, but when you have Calvino (and you already don’t particularly like his dreamlike knightly stories) it just seems kind of silly. Yes, the story is formally perfectly framed, but to me that’s just not enough to make it a seminal work in the French literature of the 20^th century. The book, just like the life of CIdrolin, is really quite cute. And there is a problem when the best thing you can say about a book is that it’s “really cute”.

The Child in Time – Ian McEwan

And this is two almost-consecutive books by McEwan. Unlike with Amsterdam, I am really quite sure The Child in Time is one of the greatest books of the last few decades. There is no point in saying that it’s beautifully written, with McEwan it can be taken for granted. But this book is one of the most touching ones I’ve ever read.

I was almost in tears during the initial supermarket scene, desperately reading to get to the happy ending of the section as soon as possible. Except that the happy ending never came. And then the changing dynamics between Stephen and Julie, with the reader unable to take sides because both of them appear to be – sadly – reasonable, and most of all because who could make a judgement in such a situation?

But Stephen ends up realizing his childhood dream and driving a train. And the actual driver figures things out before Stephen – or any reader – does, and I think that’s just poetry.

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.

Amsterdam – Ian McEwan

I often wonder whether McEwan is the greatest writer of his generation. Books like Atonement and Child in Time make me think he could be (although I generally end up concluding that he isn’t), but others like Amsterdam make me wonder whether he might have enjoyed more success than he deserved.

The book is, like all others by McEwan, about rich people, charming rich people (at least, they are not always awesome charming rich people). In this book, the author seems to have a preference for one of his two main characters: the musician, whose brilliant symphony is (or might be?) destroyed by his former old-time friend (who, on the other hand, is criticized for the absolute lack of morality of some of his actions). The final showdown between the two is farcical and makes me question the literary value of the novel.

Sure, this is a quick read and written beautifully like all of McEwan’s books – but the annoying protagonists make the awful Tory minister appear likeable and defendable. And I don’t like that.