#books

That the publishing world is not transparent, that the small fish are devoured by the big ones, that the good ones, if not famous for other reasons, have no chance to be published and known, that some writers produce bullshit but sell millions of copies thanks to hype, that the literary cases are assembled at a table, that the books are directly commissioned by the publishers to prominent personalities and then written by ghost writers, by now we all know that ,and who does not know is not the least familiar with this reality and still lives, lucky him, in the world of dreams.
And with this I don't want to refer only to the various shades of gray or to the meters above the sky - because, come on, we all know that that is not art, but we read it anyway - rather to the so-called contemporary Italian literature.
I don't even want to talk about the writers who publish books with paid printers that no one has reread even once, stupid in content and ungrammatical in form, full of spelling and syntax errors. Once unmasked by readers - these writers who strut at the caciocavallo festival, alongside the councilor for culture - they are even capable of blaming the editor - if it ever existed one - to have inserted errors in the text on purpose to discredit them. No, I want to speak rather of noble literature, the one that is presented in newspapers and on television, which makes a fine show of itself on the shelves of motorway restaurants and post offices. I don't think these works all suck, no. But like them there are many others, perhaps even more deserving, which will never appear on those shelves because they are forgotten in the drawer of some editor unable to reply to emails, because you have stumbled upon the shortcut chopper of the badly distributed vanity press or, perhaps, because they are molding in the online window of some self-publishing platform.
More than overrated writers, we have, I would say, overrated stories, because the style may exist, even refined, but not enough to make a masterpiece. You know, for example, the impressive machine from Ian Pears' books, the perfect clockwork device? Is there anyone here who can match it? Or the narrative ability of Rohinton Mistri? And minimalism, yes, but that of Anita Desai, not that of the two words with a full stop. And the true John Updike, not those who mock him by Americanizing and pretending to be angry.
In my opinion, the thinness of certain Italian texts passed off as works of art is evident, destined instead to be forgotten within half a generation. I don't mention names because I don't like to offend, my judgment is subjective and I don't need enemies. However, those few times that I let myself be persuaded to read a contemporary Italian novel, perhaps one that made it to the final at Campiello, at Strega etc etc, I almost always struggle with the lack of effort, depth, narrative commitment, even paper. It's all pleasant, for heaven's sake, readable but subtle, intimate, trite: brothers and sisters with some obvious childhood problems, partisan stories, fascisms and little else.
Reviewing texts, then, I come across autobiographies, family facts, thrillers with no head or tail and lots and lots of vulgar sex. Or, worse, in the post mortem reinterpretation of the surreal avant-gardes of the early twentieth century, in delirious destructuralist manifestos, in symbols passed off as sublimation of intelligence at the expense of content, rationality, emotion. At the expense of telling an interesting, compelling story.
This about being compelling when writing is my obsession: boredom is never a value for me. What is the pleasure of reading if not curiosity, the desire to know what happens on the next page? What else can you instill in a child, if not the joy of curling up with a book on your lap until your eyes burn while reading adventures, magic, unknown worlds? I know of kids forced to put up with Stendhal's La Certosa di Parma who have had a lifetime refusal for anything that even from afar resembled a book.
At the cost of sounding xenophile (and I am) I say that I go and buy the books in the "fiction in the original language" section, usually English-speaking, because here - with the due exceptions it is obvious - I only see short and thin stories, constructed on nothing, closed in a microcosm of time and space, without study, depth of feeling or narrative scaffolding, without development, without plot and often boring. Or loose words written side by side just because they sound good, without respect for the magical harmony of form and content that, in my opinion, is the basis of every work of art.
And let's not speak, then, of the very latest, intrusive, onnipresent, generation of university and precarious thirty-year-olds, and it seems that those who start writing today have nothing to tell other than inconclusive days, spent pretending to study, and nights spent hanging around in search of pills and fucking, capable of making you regret those "without hinges" by Erica Jong.
Here I claim the sacrosanct right not to be intellectual - even when you hang out with books and the publishing world - and to read what I like, even nonsense, but considering them for what they are, that is, evasion and not art. In fact, I read what the hell I like, I don't necessarily have to know all the latest winners, I don't necessarily have to say that I understood everything if I didn't understand anything, for fear of appearing ignorant. Perhaps, if I did not understand, it is also because the author did not explain himself well. And if a book does not take me, it does not tell me anything, it bores me, I give it up, I abandon it, even if it is considered "cerebral, symbolic and profound", even if behind it there are "philosophical and psychoanalytical motivations". If it's a pizza it's a pizza, and someone has to say it, someone has to declare the king's nakedness. And this, I add, also applies to the sacred monsters, so that here and now, once and for all, I confess that I have never managed to finish some novels by Tolstoy, Hesse, Conrad, Proust (and Stendhal!) with all due respect to the fans and to those who will call me ignorant.
I like a book if it has an underlying motivation, a well-constructed plot, an original atmosphere, a non-trivial style, and if it excites, makes you think, and live another life. When the packaging is good, any content acquires flavor.
I have seen literary cases swollen at the table exploiting the friendship between journalists and publishers, inventing fake word of mouth of the network, I have seen the striking case of the false successful novel (never written and never existed) that all the famous people interviewed pretended to have read , appreciated and even reviewed. I've seen things you humans have.

Io gli studi leggiadri

talor lasciando e le sudate carte,

ove il tempo mio primo

e di me si spendea la miglior parte,

d’in su i veroni del paterno ostello

porgea gli orecchi al suon della tua voce,

ed alla man veloce

che percorrea la faticosa tela.

Mirava il ciel sereno,

le vie dorate e gli orti,

e quinci il mar da lungi, e quindi il monte.

Lingua mortal non dice

quel ch’io sentiva in seno

Well, if there was a need for explanations to understand what true art, literature and poetry is, these verses would be enough, the chimes of the Torre del Borgo would be enough, or the solitary bird nestled among the battlements. It would be enough because art cannot be explained and defined, it does not fit in and has no fixed fees. And because the poet is the one who is emotionally involved in what he sees.
Read, read what you like and don't waste your money on creative writing courses, read the classics. Read Leopardi and Dante, I add, who always do well.

The King is naked