I’ve always loved reading.A lot. If something as reading too much can possibly exists, then there was a time when I was probably reading too much.
I was a slightly introvert child who preferred spending time with adults, preferably elderly people, rather than children my own age.
Since a young age, I used to earmark the illustrated versions of the great classics at the local town bookstore and, growing up, I remember the phases I fell in love with entire cathegories of authors: those from russia and eastern europe in general, then those who from Israel or from Jewish diaspora, then I fell in love with French authors and many oth-ers…
You’re probably thinking I was a bookworm and, believe me, I’m sorry I wasn’t, above all in high school, with my innate love for everything to do with literary studies… but life is complicated and I was also somehow a wild-child and I didn’t want to miss out on any-thing.
Then the cancer years arrived and everything went dark. And I stopped reading.
I don’t know why, it just happened. My passion for literature was only equalled by my great love of yoga and, while the written word too often demanded to ask myself too many questions, yoga only asked me to be myself, to jump on my mat and stop thinking.
Then, time passed by and, while with a poetry book in my hands, and while being in the process of publishing my first novel I started to think there were gaps to be filled.
An aspiring author who hadn’t seriously read anything for at least ten years was just un-thinkable. In addition, I realised the more I spoke and read in English, the more my Italian became impoverished, slipping away from me.
Then it happened, winter had come – a particularly painful one – at the end of which, like an animal in its den, I wanted to shut out the external noise and just read. What book can you read when you’ll feeling totally broken?
I started with the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Because I really needed to escape from reality: “stop the world, I want to get off”; even such a phrase becomes an option thanks to this gem of a Guide.
From there, I discovered Kindle, together with the expediency of a long vacation and I read a series of wonderful books: “Il Corpo Docile” by Rosella Postorino, “Se Ami Qualcuno Dillo” by Marco Bonino, “Tutto Tranne Il Cielo” by Eleonora C. Caruso, “Un Cuore Tuo Mal Grado” by Piero Sorrentino, “Una Vita al Giorno” by Massimo Vitali – a good read and really funny, too – “Educated” by Tara Westover, and a book I fell in love with and that helped me rediscover myself: “La Misura Eroica” by Andrea Marcolongo.
The book paraphrases the adventure of the argonauts, considering us, people today, and our contemporary journey only to resurface…How? Where? The answers are very differ-ent from the ones that Jason and his companions would have given, but I believe the rea-sons that drive us are the same.
I have always been fond of the saga of Jason and Medea, even if is the next part of the story that has fascinated me more … I have always had a deep interest in Medea as its told by Euripides. I find it a masterpiece of psychology and demagogy. Medea kills her own children with the sole intention of causing pain to their father, Jason, while knowing that she was inflicting the same pain on herself and, in an ultimate gesture of spite, she also deprives Jason of the chance to mourn them, by depriving him of his children’s corpses, and as you read this gruesome story there’s a moment where the power of the words makes you forget about the “moral laws” and you start being on Medea’s side, thus knowing she doesn’t deserve mercy.
While hoping that this fervour as a reader will last, I’ll do my best to be back soon with more views on new books …