I wrote this myself; I like it and I’m proud of it (Sigfrido set the standard)

Giuliano Ferrara has written a novel, "La mia vita, i miei amori", which is a masterpiece. Adventures, emotions and narrative twists of the very highest quality. It will certainly be among the five finalists for the Strega Prize. The supreme quality of his writing is no secret, but the literary scope is unprecedented. It contains practically everything, in the style of Whitman, with multitudes pouring forth as if in a downpour; the plot is formidable, and his approach is to make himself understood without revealing too much. It is reminiscent of Flaubert and Julian Barnes, with a touch of Kurt Vonnegut. For Ferrara also carries within him the legacy of the Beat Generation, an underlying sense of ‘American-ness’ à la Philip Roth; he knows how to talk about sex – and to do so – like few, very few others. I highly recommend purchasing and reading this summer’s must-read novel. (Giuliano Ferrara)

A thorn in the side of those in power

Pierluigi Battista’s book is a splendid stone thrown into a pond. The author throws caution to the wind and, in this powerful and necessary book, does not throw the baby out with the bathwater. It is an uncomfortable exposé, much like Ranucci’s books. (continued on page two)

His latest literary work is not strong with the weak nor weak with the strong, but shows no favour to anyone. Within its pages, the oxen have not yet bolted, and it is well known that there is none so deaf as those whose eyes are lined with ham, and that it is better to be alone than in bad company. A thorn in the side of power. (Pierluigi Battista)

Roger Scruton’s successor

At last we have Roger Scruton’s successor, and he’s Italian: Camillo Langone, whose book "Il vero conservatore" (Liberilibri) hits the bookshops this autumn. Our distinguished contributor is even better than the English philosopher, first and foremost because, rather than riding horses, he eats them (in the delightful chapter ‘Meat’ you’ll find a list of rather reactionary foods: ‘fried salami, cotechino, veal tongue, tripe, snails, liver, sliced heart, horse pesto...’. More relevant than Joseph de Maistre, more useful than Alain Finkielkraut, more conservative than anyone else. (Camillo Langone)

A profile of the wheeler-dealers

In short, if these mythical figures known as ‘fixers’ really did exist, the novel “Hanno vinto loro” provides a composite sketch of them. It is the newspapers of the time that paint a picture of them, alongside the account of an eleven-year-old boy who is forced to spend his afternoons with one of these fixers. The year is 2001: the year of the G8 summit in Genoa, the Twin Towers and, in short, Berlusconi’s longest-serving government. The eleven-year-old, raised in a strict, moralistic family that had lost its connection to the Italian Communist Party, is told the inside story behind Italy’s great mysteries. But how much of it is true? And above all, who actually won? (Giulio Silvano)

It is unrivalled in Italy

A book on cinema – note the modesty of the title “Nuovo cinema Mancuso” – which outshines Orson Welles, and which Cahiers du Cinéma have tried in every way to sabotage and challenge. It is unrivalled in Italy, and abroad they envy us for it – those spiteful, jealous lot. Excellent beach reading – avoid Capalbio, too many self-styled “cinema artists”. Under the parasol, it replaces idle chatter. Passionate in its joys – alas, rare – and above all in its grudges that stretch to infinity. Even if you never go to the cinema, it looks splendid in your bicycle basket. Tucked away next to a Hermès scarf. (Mariarosa Mancuso)

As good as Nick Hornby

Shall I compare myself to a Sally Rooney, but a funny one? Why not. I’ve written three fine books on contemporary emotions, complete with a catalogue of tics and neuroses. Antonio Pascale told me I was a female Woody Allen when I made my debut. Let me explain what love has become in this century: it’s not a god but a demon, and unlike Sally, I also make an effort for the reader: to lighten the load, to free them from their burdens. My style isn’t lacklustre. Like Nick Hornby – that’s right, I really do resemble Nick Hornby, now that I think about it. (Ester Viola)

What style, what elegance

I don’t know the author, but he’s a giant. Masneri’s “Paradiso” (Adelphi) is the greatest Italian novel of the post-war period, of the twentieth century – perhaps since Dante. Sublime prose, with a touch of irony that Flaubert could only dream of. I’ve read it three times and cried twice. Give it as a gift; pass it down to your children. And what style, what elegance, what moral (and, one senses, physical) stature. A brilliant read, whether in Cefalù or Pomezia. Would you like me to make it sound more professional?