Falling asleep at the cinema and other indignities. Gonzalo Maier speaks his mind

Gonzalo Maier, a Chilean born in 1981, is a master of detail. “Il libro delle tasche”, published last year by Sellerio, tells the story of a grocer with a magnificent moustache. In a small pocket of his apron – his work uniform; as was the custom at the time, office workers also wore half-sleeves to protect their good suits – he keeps a small comb. In the eyes of the local lads (among them, Gonzalo), he was one of the neighbourhood’s wonders. The contents of his other pockets – mirrors, leaflets and wallets, a wedding ring slipped off a finger – completed the little book.

Now Sellerio is publishing (again in the green-covered ‘Il Divano’ series) another little book entitled ‘Leggere e dormire’. Curiously, he seemed too original a writer to suggest books as a substitute for sleeping pills. The title of the mini-story actually says something different: “Né leggere né dormire”. It tells the story of a house move: to make room for a newborn child, the bookcases are moved into the living room. It’s a little girl, we later discover. The delighted father disputes the claim that people read less when they have children.

For Gonzalo Maier, the opposite is true: with the spines of the books right under his nose, he is suddenly curious, reads more, and is happier. For example, he devours – and relishes – the autobiographical stories of Alan Bennett, the playwright behind "The Madness of King George" (later adapted into a film directed by Nicholas Hytner) and the author of "Naked and Raw" and "The Sovereign Reader".

No cliché stands a chance. Take falling asleep at the cinema, for example – as festival-goers, we remember the neighbour who snores, or who slides over onto you: the nightmares of the trade. Among the short pieces, one is entitled ‘Sleeping at the cinema’. The writer confesses – or rather, the chatterbox, as these pieces are light-hearted and rambling. In the past – he admits – he was convinced that falling asleep halfway through a film was a disgrace or a sign of weak character. A weakness that would have prevented him from reaching the heights of critical acclaim. He has changed his mind; now he says: “Sometimes films seem made specifically to be forgotten”. And he names names – not like the famous Pauline Kael, the *New Yorker* critic who, according to a well-established legend, died whilst watching a film, though no one ever revealed its title. Maier recalls those restorative naps whilst watching Tarkovsky, Chantal Akerman, a few films by Agnès Varda, and Raúl Ruiz. And up to this point, one might say, ‘just like any other viewer’. Our man, however, adds that he also fell asleep whilst watching Christopher Nolan’s Batman (which has two sequels) and Nonsochi’s Joker.

Insults and great truths, in no particular order. He calls out the Thai filmmaker Apichatpong Weerasethakul – a director whose films we’ve never managed to watch without dozing off. "Uncle Bonmee Recalls His Past Lives" was a nightmare, and also a great lesson. Meanwhile, the public was getting hooked on the TV series Lost. Apichatpong, as we discovered from this little book, used to say that people falling asleep in the cinema was a great honour for him. He himself had dozed off whilst watching the Taiwanese masters, Tsai Ming-liang or Hou Hsiao-hsien. (With a few exceptions, these are endless drags.)

While agreement cannot be reached on every point, there is consensus regarding Joe Brainard, the artist and writer to whom we owe "I Remember" (Lindau): a collection of his own and others’ memories. Gonzalo Maier also recounts the pleasure he derives from washing up. There is a tirade against collected works, a youthful dream of taking up horse racing, and an essay on socks. From Neruda’s ode to Alfred Einstein, who didn’t wear them because they get holes in them.