Difficult Loves by Italo Calvino

Reading work by Italo Calvino I am reminded of the italian filmmaker Nanni Moretti. You know, the one who has the very direct autobiographical stories, and he spends a lot of time talking to the camera? I don't know why it is they remind me of each other, a certain sensibility, a quiet humour maybe. Anyway, Reading Calvino this time around I found myself getting exasperated with his quiet humour, his analytic style, his microscopic examinations - it was getting mannered and tiresome.

But that's only after the first few stories: The Adventure of a Soldier, The Adventure of a Crook, The Adventure of a Bather, The Adventure of a Clerk and the Adventure of a Traveller. Suddenly there is a shift in this book, starting around The Adventure of a Wife and changing full-blown with Smog, and the final story A Plunge into Real Estate. This is a Calvino I've never read before, not in previous books either: lighter, fluid, way more expressive about things such as people and emotions - much more interesting in the long run, and thank heavens, because these last two stories are by far the longest. Compare, for example this bit from The Adventure of a Traveller, the most tedious of the lot, probably because it was the last of the stiff stories and I was losing patience.

"First he had to take off his good trousers and put on an old pair, so he wouldn't arrive all rumpled. The operation would take place in the W.C; but before - to have greater freedom of movement - it was best ot change his shoes for slippers. From his bag Federico took out his old trousers, the slippers bag, took off his shoes, put on the slippers, hid the shoes under the seat, went to the W.C. to change his trousers. 'Je voyage toujours!' He came back, arranged his good trousers on the rack so they would keep their crease. "Trallalà-la la!' he placed the pillow at the end of the seat, towards the passage, because it was better to hear the sudden opening of the door above your head than to be struck by it visibly as you suddenly opened your eyes. 'Du voyage, je sais tout!' At the other end of the seat he put a newspaper, because he didn't lie down barefoot; he kept his slippers on. He hung his jacket from a hook over the pillow, and in one pocket he put his change-purse and his bill-clip, which would have pressed against his leg if left in his trouser-pocket. But he kept his ticket, in the little pocket below his his belt: 'Je sais bien voyager...'"

And so on it goes.

Here's a bit from Smog:

"Now I had taken her to the 'Urbano Rattazzi' because it was the only restaurant I knew of that sort, not because it was near my room; in fact, I was on pins and needles at the very thought that she might form some idea of the house where I lived just by glancing at the doorway of the building, and I had relied chiefly on her flightiness.

Instead, she wanted to go up there. Telling her about the room, I exaggerated its squalor, to turn the whole event into something grotesque. But as she went up and crossed the landing, she noticed only the good aspects: the ancient and rather noble architecture of the building, the functional way in which those old apartments were laid out. We went in, and she said: 'Why, what are you talking about? The room is wonderful. What more do you want?'"

Different vibe in the extreme, wouldn't you agree?

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