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by Cesare Pavese (1948)

Three young men, the narrator, Pieretto, Oreste, being young, nocturnal, and bored, met Poli, who has all the money to indulge in his whims, whatever they may be. No purpose of existence, achievements, feeling wasted, women, drugs here and there, hunting, you know, the usual.

I’m not sure what’s my take on this. Pavese was—according to an introduction to his other short stories collection I’ve read—a woman hater (though he fell deeply once for a “woman with a deep voice”), stiff and awkward because he was too aware, and they show in his writings. In a way they hit close to home, but how many gratuitious stories about bored, debauched young men with (or looking for) issues can one take before one gets overdosed with impotent white male testosterones (even if one is plagued by the same old thing)?

Having said that, Pavese revealed plenty of nuances, ambiences, rich feelings and interesting maxims, but there are times I feel it’s just too much for its almost never-ending possibilities of levels and meanings. Or maybe it’s the problem of translation (NYRB re-released it as a compilation, translated by R. W. Flint). The ending, although rather cliche, round things up quite nicely. It does remind one of F. Scott Fitzgerald…

Tags:fiction, Italian-literature, Italy
fiction, Italy, Pavese, Cesare

April 13, 2006 @ 10:00 pm  | 1 Comment