Napoli
Widely scattered
reading, sometimes heavy, with occasional posts diminishing towards the end of
the year, threatening drought.
As Seraillon enters its fifth year of existence, I thank all of you who have visited the blog despite sometimes lengthy
periods between posts. Even if I only reviewed a fraction of what I read, my reading in 2014 provided me with magnificent new discoveries, further explorations of some writers I knew, plus visits with a few old favorites.
Italian literature dominated the year. Nearly a third of the
books I read in 2014 were by Italian writers or set in Italy. This was not primarily
due, as one might suppose, to three weeks in October I spent in Naples and in
Sicily (where apparently I just missed Himadri of The
Argumentative Old Git). Rather, I owe my Italian focus to four works read in
relative succession that simply made me want to read more Italian literature:
Alessandro Manzoni’s The Betrothed, perhaps my favorite book read in
2013; Ludovico Ariosto’s epic poem Orlando furioso, certainly my favorite
book read in 2014; a reread of Dante’s Inferno in a startlingly original
translation by Irish poet Ciarin Carson; and a reread of Manuel Mujica Láinez’s
extraordinary Bomarzo, Italian even if not by an Italian writer. The bookends of travel, anticipation and aftermath, spurred further
reading of Italian, and particularly Sicilian, writers.
I hope to post about more of these Italian works, so I’ll hold
off on discussing them here except to single out a few as among my favorite
books read in 2014.
Topping the entire list would be Orlando furioso. Ariosto’s
16th century epic poem, depicting the defense of Christendom from
Muslim invaders in the 9th century and recasting, with generous
charm and wit, the chivalric tales of Orlando (Roland) and his fellow knights,
proved to be an tremendous breath of fresh air, unexpectedly modern and deeply humanistic,
with an affable narrator, memorable heroic characters on all sides of the conflict,
a strong feminist angle, and wildly entertaining fantastical elements,
including around-the-world travel on a hippogryph and a voyage to the moon to rescue
the frenzied Orlando’s lost wits. The nearly 40,000 lines of the poem, which
Voltaire without exaggeration described as “the Iliad, the Odyssey and Don
Quixote all rolled into one,” were not nearly enough; I did not want Orlando
furioso to end.
A visit to the village of Aci Trezza on Sicily’s eastern
shore provided incentive to read Giovanni Verga’s I Malavoglia (The
House by the Medlar Tree), a work I’d long awaited reading. Verga’s
portrait of the poor Malavoglia family’s seemingly endless series of setbacks
is biting, tragic and comical at once, and an unforgettable portrayal of the
human struggle against adversity and poverty. I know of nothing quite like
Verga’s brand of realism, the manner in which he depicts human dignity in the
face of tragedy so movingly, yet with such droll, fine humor - and with such a
deliberate attempt, in trying to represent reality, to strip away that all the
rest that is literature.
I'd been awestruck in 2012 by Curzio Malaparte's Kaputt, but The Skin, Malaparte’s series of semi-fictionalized essays set
mostly in American-occupied Naples in the waning years of World War II, has
absolutely haunted me, especially while in Naples. The Skin depicts the
absurdity and horror not only of the war, but of the victory as well. No one
writes like Malaparte, one of World War II’s great witnesses; his fictional,
surreal embellishments of grim, often horrific situations, instead of rendering
them unbelievable, manages to make their reality even more tangible.
Having previously read only two works by Sicilian writer and
activist Leonardo Sciascia, his crime novel The Day of the Owl and his strangely
obsessive inquest into the suicide of Raymond Roussel, I was blown away by The
Council of Egypt, a novel set in 18th century Palermo involving
forged books, the traitorousness of translation, the impact of history on the
living, and providing, in a surprising turn at the end of the novel, a powerful
indictment of torture.
Among the non-Italian
highlights of the year (not strictly Italian anyway), I include three for which
I’ve written posts: Bomarzo and two 19th century Spanish
novels, one fat and one thin, that fit well together: Leopoldo Alas’ La Regenta and Benito Pérez Galdós’ Tristana.
One about which I have not yet written is Richard Harris Barham’s The
Ingoldsby Legends. I was unfamiliar with this work, yet in the 19th
century Barham’s collection of legends, poems and songs, published under the
pseudonym Thomas Ingoldsby, was the most popular work of fiction in Great Britain,
even surpassing works by publisher Robert Bentley’s other best-selling author, one Charles Dickens. Barham’s
linguistically wide-ranging prose and brilliantly rhyming poetry, put to work whimsically and ferociously in darkly humorous, grotesquely gothic folkloric tales full of
cruel chastisements and bad (very bad) ends, kept me entertained for weeks. The
extensive annotations by Carol Hart in my Spring Street Books edition are
nearly as entertaining as the work itself. And hey, there’s a whole second
volume to go.
Among authors I happily revisited were E. M. Forster, Raymond Roussel, Willa Cather, Colette, Anita Loos, Roberto Bolaño (a 2666
group read sponsored by Richard of Caravana de Recuerdos), MacDonald Harris, Conor
McPherson, Kingsley Amis, Carl Jonas Love Almqvist, Ann Radcliffe, José Saramago, Boris Vian, Antoine
Saint-Exupéry’s ever enthralling and elegant Wind, Sand and Stars, Joan
Aiken’s superbly entertaining children’s book, The Wolves of Willoughby
Chase, and cartoonist Roz Chast in her brilliantly funnynotfunny account of
taking care of elderly parents, Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant?
Dora Bruder marked my return to Patrick Modiano after
a number of years. This work, straddling fiction and non-fiction, makes for a
compelling rejoinder to those who’ve scoffed at Modiano’s having been awarded the
Nobel Prize. I’d include it on a short list of crucial works about the
Holocaust. Modiano tugs on a loose thread, an old newspaper clipping, and
unravels a devastating history all the more affecting for our knowledge that
there were millions of such singular stories, such promising lives, each so
individual, each so terribly alike in their end.
As for authors new to me, I dusted off a few books long in
the queue, including Helene Hanff’s charming, hilarious epistolary
work, 84, Charing Cross Road. I tackled the first volume of
Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast trilogy, but preferred the pseudonymous Harry
Kressing’s almost undoubtedly Peake-inspired, comic novel of calculated
nastiness, The Cook. Another pulled from the pile, María Amparo Ruiz de Burton’s
1872 novel, Who Would Have Thought It?, proved far more fascinating than
its sometimes leaden sentences initially promised. Considered the first novel
written by a Mexican-American woman, Who Would Have Thought It? explores
complications of race, gender, power and politics in the American Civil War
period by an unusual writer and personal friend of Abraham Lincoln. One of the few
other U.S. writers I discovered this year was playwright August Wilson. Joe Turner’s
Come and Gone and its predecessor, Gem of the Ocean, look at
African-Americans in Pittsburgh at the beginning of the 20th
century, exploring the tensions between those unable to put the atrocity of
slavery behind them and others all too eager to move on, oblivious to the past.
These are riveting plays, rich in language and nuance. And though I’d probably
first encountered Njal’s Saga in some form in grade school, a group read led by the Wuthering Expectations blog made it a new and bloody rewarding
experience.
A collection of short stories, Things Look Different inthe Light, introduced me to late Spanish writer Medardo Fraile, whose sly
tales take slices of daily life at an oblique angle. Thanks to Miguel of the
St. Orberose blog, I got a tantalizing introduction to another Spanish writer,
Gonzalo Torrente Ballester. 2014 is also the year I discovered Rodrigo Rey
Rosa, a Guatemalan protégé of Paul Bowles. Two of Rey
Rosa’s short novels – Severina and The African Shore – whet my
appetite to read more of this remarkable writer and his distinctively lucid,
penetrating prose. Regrettably, I read few books from beyond Europe and the
Americas, but two were real standouts: Persian writer Sadegh Hedayat’s La
Chouette Aveugle (The Blind Owl), and Touareg writer Ibrahim
al-Koni’s desert novel, Gold Dust, which pairs nicely with Rey Rosa’s The
African Shore as excellent short novels with animals at the center of their stories.
I might have missed Fog Island Mountains, by Michelle Bailat-Jones, but for her interest in and translation of Swiss writer
Charles-Ferdinand Ramuz having alerted me to her own writing. Fog Island
Mountains, Bailat-Jones’ first novel, takes an old Japanese folktale and
spins on top of it a contemporary story of coming to terms with terminal
illness. The mythological quality of the tale permits some liberties with
coincidence and dramatic effect, resulting in a beautiful and moving book
structured around stages of a typhoon that spans the compressed time frame of
the story.
My favorite new discovery among contemporary writers is John
McGahern’s That They May Face the Rising Sun (for its American edition re-titled by some
marketeer as the hum-drum By the Lake). Magahern’s deceptively simple
subject – the return to a lakeside Irish village of a couple who’ve left behind
their professional lives in London – is developed into an exquisite portrayal
of small town life, the tensions between progress and tradition, the effort to
make a good life in the face of mortality, the inexorability of time. Sparkling
with witty Irish crack and peopled by a cast of characters one comes to know
intimately, MaGahern’s novel subtly and richly weaves in politics, manners and
culture such that I felt upon emerging from the novel that I might need no
other guide to visit its setting and have a grip on the place.
Putting aside Ariosto, I read slightly less poetry than in
past years, but what I read I liked very much: Louise Labé’s 16th century love poems, a selection of Spain’s Siglo de Oro poets, Frank Kuppner’s idiosyncratic and irreverent
collection of 500+ quatrains devoted to Chinese painting in A Bad Day
for the Sung Dynasty, Chris Abani’s harrowing prison poems in Kalakuta
Republic, and, among the Italians a sampling
of Salvatore Quasimodo, Umberto Saba, and Danilo Dolci. In the final days of the
year I discovered the irreverent sonneteer Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli, whose
work I’m continuing to read now, and about whom I expect to have more to say
later.
I read slightly more
detective/thriller/polar novels than
usual, including several of Sicilian writer Andrea Camilleri’s Inspector
Montalbano books, Ariel Winter’s adept and entertaining impersonations of
Georges Simenon, Raymond Chandler and Jim Thompson in the trilogy of novels
entitled The Twenty Year Death, and, uh, one or two others. Most
mysteries slip through my memory like sand.
I don’t expect my exploration of Italian literature to slow
down in 2015, especially as I’ve begun the year reading nothing but works by
Italians. Plus, how fortuitous, the Wuthering Expectations blog has picked
Italian literature as the focus for its annual reading challenge. I do have a
few non-Italian works I plan to read, though, and as always, I remain open to
whatever other glittering thing might flash before my wandering magpie eyes.
Thank you again visiting Seraillon, and to you all I wish a year of abundant humor,
happiness, love and peace – and rewarding reading, of course.
Lots of ideas here for the coming years. The Bethrothed, in particular, is looking like a book I should track down. Really delighted to see McGahern's wonderful swan song get a write up. He has long been a favourite of mine.
ReplyDeleteSéamus - If I haven't made it clear before, The Betrothed was one of the great highlights of my reading life. I used the Bruce Penman translation, for what it's worth.
DeleteSo glad to hear about your being a fan of MaGahern. What else by him would you recommend?
Wonderful post, Scott, and what an amazing year you've had. As Seamus has said, lots of ideas here for the months ahead. I already have the Fraile collection which I'm looking forward to immensely, and I'm keen to take a look at the Sciascia you mention here. The Day of the Owl is an excellent novel, and I read another Sciascia (Equal Danger) last year - not quite up there with Owl but very good nonetheless. Rey Rosa's beguiling Severina narrowly missed out on a place in my books of the year and it sounds as though I should be looking at The African Shore. I'm on a self-imposed book-buying moratorium at the moment (in an effort to make a dent in my TBR) but once I'm back in the game I'm sure I'll be getting Tristana.
ReplyDeleteI'm very glad to have discovered your blog; it's been a pleasure to chat and exchange recommendations with you over the past year. Wishing you all the best for 2015. I'm looking forward to hearing more about the Italians in the weeks and months to come.
Many thanks, Jacqui. Your blog was a great discovery for me this year too. I will probably read the rest of what I can find by Sciascia - he's an enormously interesting writer. And yes, once your book-buying moratorium ends (or if you cheat on it a bit) I encourage you to pick up The African Shore. I know you loved Severina, and while the former doesn't have Severina's appealing book-centric focus, I actually liked it better. All best for 2015; I'm eager to see what you'll be reading.
DeleteAnother good shelf year, Scott. Looking forward to your thoughts on future reading ventures, Italian or otherwise.
ReplyDeleteThanks Rise. I owe a lot of this blog to you and your encouragement. I look forward to your posts in the coming year.
DeleteThis is a great retrospective on your yearly reading. I personally want to read more Italian literature.
ReplyDeleteI second Seamus's comment on this post looking to be a great source for book recommendations.
I am really looking forward to your future posts.
Thanks, Brian. The time seems right for jumping on the Italian literature train, so all aboard. And likewise, I'm looking forward to your forthcoming 2015 posts; it's been a great pleasure reading your blog. I thought of you and your interest in American history while reading the Ruiz de Burton book, one I think you might find right up your alley.
DeleteGreat, exciting wrap-up post, Scott, and I'm particularly interested in following your Italian reading adventures in 2015 b/c I hope this is the year I try and start reading full-length novels in Italian (I read a Sciascia novella in Italian a couple of years ago, but that was barely more than a very long short story). Very jealous that you got to go to Napoli and Sicilia for three weeks, though--what fun that must have been!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Richard. How exciting that you're going to try some Italian works in the original. I'm a long way from being able to do that, but I'm starting to be able to follow some Italian films fairly well. And yes, the trip to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies went beyond fun - such an incredible richness of the beautiful and the un-anticipated. I still feel a bit like that astronaut at the end of the hallucinatory sequence of Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey - trembling in awe and wonder. Looking forward to seeing what you'll propose for group reads this year, and hoping to make up for a couple I missed in 2014!
DeleteEverybody's going to read Italian books, how nice. Glad to see my baleful influence. Glad to see you read Ruiz de Burton - I was wondering about that one.
ReplyDeleteI hope everyone's going to read Italian books - what a literature!
DeleteI can think of several works in which a main character changes gender over the course of the story, but few in which one changes skin color. The Ruiz de Burton has that, though, as well as a number of other oddities and some intriguing historical elements, including, for a novel, unusually proximate glimpses into the Lincoln White House. The Penguin Classics edition is apparently the one to get.
It has been a joy to discover your blog this year, Scott. (Hey, give me five years, and I'll figure it out!) While you mention many books I, too, have enjoyed, you put forth new ones I'm eager to read. It is a lovely challenge to discover something one adores, be it Italian literature, Japanese literature, a children's author, or an author of little reknown. Fun to be on the journey with you and our fellow readers.
ReplyDeleteThanks very much Bellezza - it's been a pleasure getting to know your blog as well this year. Happy reading in 2015!
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