Max, Mischa and the wave of beautiful books that everyone’s talking about

Even more unbearable than those who do not read a book because ‘everyone’s talking about it’ are those who say: ‘Oh nooo, you should read this other one instead’. Equally exasperating are the (real? fake?) readers of books that nobody reads, especially when they declare, whilst discussing the books everyone else is reading, that they are ‘annoyed by the marketing and all the fuss being made about them’ – with the emphasis on the ‘a’, as in a nursery rhyme. One might be tempted to examine the contents of the drawers, sideboards and wardrobes of these self-proclaimed sentinels, who claim to be impervious to marketing, in order to ascertain their dietary habits, clothing choices and domestic décor.

Here is a fact: never in the history of humankind has a single writer—whether left-wing, left-wing only on social media, left-wing across the board, or a sentinel standing at Landini’s command—complained that their novel had been promoted too much. There is no record of a writer berating a press office, thundering down the phone: ‘You’re selling it to everyone! You’re going too far! Between press campaigns and word of mouth on social media, we’ve sold 500,000 copies in a week; twenty print runs have gone in a flash. I’m absolutely outraged!” On the other hand, there are countless instances—at dinners, gatherings in Mantua, and tea parties at the Book Fair—where dozens, no, what am I saying, hundreds of writers give the publishers a right telling-off for not doing enough for their books. Which, incidentally, is always true.

These thoughts were prompted by the recent success, both in terms of sales and critical acclaim, of a commendable tome entitled "Max, Mischa and the Tet Offensive" by Johan Harstad, previously the author of "What Ever Happened to You, Buzz Aldrin?" Over the summer, the publication of this 1,242-page tome by Sellerio—the novel was released at the end of July—stirred the stagnant waters somewhat, and a great many people found themselves talking about it. Not always with a full understanding of the subject, as when, for example, someone refers to it as a ‘world-class work’ – which it isn’t (let’s not forget that Bookstagrammers, with very few exceptions, are people to whom publishers send free novels and who, in return, speak highly of them having read the blurb) – but there is no doubt that Harstad’s novel is widely read and equally loved. No harm done? No, all is well: in August, a novel that truly deserves attention was at the centre of a stir. All is well because it is a thoroughly anti-lyrical novel, albeit centred on the constant loss that is life. It’s all right because it is truly well-structured in its excess, here and there even tedious, but just the right amount of tedious, and capable of restoring a precise meaning to the novel, which is that of reconstructing life. And it does so by snubbing almost all the stylistic trends currently in vogue. A novel in which a great deal happens, yet despite this it brings back to the fore not so much the ‘what’, but the good old ‘how’. A novel like a game of mirrors, which doesn’t start from a grand idea that can be summed up in ten seconds (the attention span limit of even someone who’s still very attentive) but which draws its strength from its leisurely pace and a tone that doesn’t strive to win over the reader – what’s more, amongst the endless folds of the lives it takes us through, it’s impossible not to recognise one’s own. What more could one ask of literature?

Everyone is discussing it, and that much is true. Yet there is a large contingent of readers who will not pick it up “because, well, there is too much talk about it, you see it everywhere, I will not allow myself to be swept up in it,” and so on. The issue is not merely the sense of being used as marketing pawns—we are far more ruthlessly exploited in many areas unrelated to publishing—but rather that books are still viewed as moral credentials for their readers, a premise that gives rise to the absurd, all-encompassing demand that they be presented according to abstract ideals of absolute purity. Books have to be sold. It’s bad literature that doesn’t need marketing; good literature does. There has often been considerable discussion of novels that are worth reading—many have been published in recent years, from "Il giorno dell’ape" to "In tutto c’è stata bellezza", from "A proposito di niente" to "4321", from "Le schegge" to "Il passeggero". So long live Max, Mischa, and the onslaught of beautiful books that everyone is talking about. Being happy about it is the least we can do.