The King is Naked on the Hill of Infinite

What does Gordiano Lupi, Piombino publisher-writer have to do with Leopardi? Nothing, in fact. Except that the undersigned is on vacation in Recanati and has brought with her a trilogy by the aforementioned Lupi (a bit dated but still current) that talks about the publishing world and contemporary literature and, here on the hill of infinity, read it whole.

The trilogy in question consists of “I almost do a writing course too” (Stampa Alternativa 2003), “My Enemies” (Stampa Alternativa, 2005) “Velina or footballer, other than a writer” (Historica 2010). The topic is the world of writing and everything that revolves around it, more for exploitation than for sharing. It’s about large and small publishing, printed and online literary magazines, reviews-hustlers, strong powers that obtain everything at the expense of quality, authors incensed because it is convenient to shout at the literary phenomenon, creative writing schools where they teach not how to write but to how bow to the taste of a not fussy public, and so on.

The tone is acid and poisoned, it suggests an overflow of bile — “if I don’t say it, I’m sick,” says the author, and I believe it. I do not agree with certain evaluations of some writers either in substance or in tone, however the truth basis is undeniable. But this does not, in my opinion, constitute the main interest of the trilogy, nor the reason why I am talking about it here on the solitary hill, between endless spaces and superhuman silences. That the publishing world is not transparent, that the little fish are devoured by the big ones, that the good ones, if not famous for other reasons, have no chance to be published and known, that some writers produce bullshit but sell millions of copies thanks to hype, that literary cases are created around a table, that books are directly commissioned by the publishers to prominent personalities and written by by ghost writers, by now we all know and those who do not know it are not the least familiar with this reality and still live, lucky them, in the world of dreams.

What strikes us, to tell the truth, in the Lupi’s trilogy, is the painful and cruel sincerity with which he shouts his outburst until he harms himself, to the point of showing himself for what he is without trying to embellish himself even a little — and in this he is very similar to me — it is the innocence of the child that makes one cry out: “The king is naked.”

Yes, because, sometimes, the king is really naked. And with this I don’t want to refer only to the various “shades of gray” or to the “meters above the sky” — because, come on, we all know that that is not art, but we read it anyway — rather to the so-called contemporary Italian literature.

I don’t even want to talk about the writers who publish with paid printers books that no one has reread even once, stupid in content and ungrammatical in form, full of spelling and syntax errors. Once unmasked by readers — these writers who strut at the caciocavallo festival, next to the councilor for culture who of cultural has not even the smell of the feet — they are even capable of blaming the editor — if it ever existed one — to have inserted errors in the text on purpose to discredit them. No, I want to speak rather of noble literature, the one that is presented in newspapers and on television, which makes a fine show of itself on the shelves of motorway restaurants and post offices. In this, the author of the trilogy finds me in tune, although not on all the names he mentions, since he would make a clean sweep while I save a lot and am more indulgent. I don’t think these works all suck, no. However, like them there are many others, perhaps even more deserving, which will never appear on those shelves because they are forgotten in the drawer of some editor unable to reply to emails, because they have stumbled upon the shortcut chopper of the poorly distributed vanity press or, perhaps, because they are making mold in the online window of some self-publishing platform.

More than overrated writers, we have, I would say, overrated stories, because the style may be there, even refined, but it is not enough to make a masterpiece. You know, for example, the impressive machine from Ian Pears’ books, the perfect clockwork device? Is there anyone here who can match it? Or the narrative ability of Rohinton Mistri? And minimalism, yes, but that of Anita Desai, not that of the two words with a full stop. And John Updike the real one, not those who mock him by Americanizing and pretending to be angry. In my opinion, the thinness of certain Italian texts passed off as works of art, destined to be forgotten within half a generation, is evident. I don’t mention names because I don’t like to offend, my judgment is subjective and I don’t need enemies. However, those few times that I let myself be convinced to read a contemporary Italian novel, perhaps one that made it to the final at Campiello, Strega etc etc, I almost always struggle with a lack of effort, depth, narrative commitment, even paper. It’s all pleasant, for heaven’s sake, readable but subtle, intimate, trite: brothers and sisters with some obvious childhood problems, partisan stories, fascisms and little else.

Reviewing texts, then, I come across autobiographies, family facts, thrillers with no head or tail and lots and lots of vulgar sex. Or, worse, in the post mortem reinterpretation of the surreal avant-gardes of the early twentieth century, in delirious destructuralist manifestos, in symbols passed off as sublimation of intelligence, at the expense of content, rationality, emotion. At the expense of telling an interesting, compelling story.

This about being compelling when writing is my obsession: boredom is never a value for me. What is the pleasure of reading if not curiosity, the desire to know what happens on the next page? What else can you instill in a child, if not the joy of curling up with a book on his/her lap until his/her eyes burn while reading adventures in magic, unknown worlds? I know of kids forced to put up with Stendhal’s “La Certosa di Parma” who have had a lifetime refusal for anything that even from afar resembled a book.

At the cost of sounding xenophile (and I am) I say that I go to buy the books in the “fiction in the original language” section, usually English-speaking, because in Italy — with the necessary exceptions it is obvious — I only see short and thin stories, constructed on nothing, closed in a microcosm of time and space, without study, depth of feeling or narrative framework, without development, without plot and often boring. Or parole in libertà written side by side just because they sound good, without respect for the magical harmony of form and content that, in my opinion, is the basis of every work of art.

To these considerations that arise here while I remember the eternal and the dead seasons, I must add that Lupi is one of the few who has the courage to call a spade a spade and claim the sacrosanct right not to be intellectual — even when one hangs out with books and the publishing world — and to read what he likes, even nonsense, but considering it for what it is, that is, evasion and not art. In fact, I read what the hell I like, I don’t necessarily have to know all the latest winners and the various “Stregatti”, I don’t necessarily have to say that I understood everything if I didn’t understand anything, for fear of appearing ignorant. Perhaps, if I did not understand, it is also because the author did not explain himself well. And if a book does catch my interest, if it does not tell me anything, if it bores me, I give it up, I abandon it, even if it is considered “cerebral, symbolic and profound”, even if there are “philosophical and psychoanalytical motivations” behind it. If it’s a pizza it’s a pizza, and someone has to say it, someone has to declare the king’s nakedness. And this, I add, also applies to sacred monsters, so that here and now, once and for all, I confess that I have never managed to finish some novels by Hesse, Conrad, Proust (and Stendhal!) with all due respect to the fans who will not talk to me anymore and to those who will call me ignorant. I like a book if it has an underlying motivation, a well-constructed plot, an original atmosphere, a non-trivial style, and if it excites me, makes me think, makes me live another life. When the packaging is good, any content acquires flavor.

And Lupi is right when he talks about inflated phenomena. I have seen literary cases inflated around a table exploiting the friendship between journalists and publishers, inventing fake word of mouth of the network, I have seen the striking case of the false successful novel (never written and never existed) that all the famous people interviewed pretended to have read, appreciated and even reviewed. I’ve seen things that you humans.

Now here, looking out the window of the marvelous Monaldo library, with my gaze sweeping over the fields and the Saturday Evening in the Village’s square, I imagine Giacomo raising his weary eyes and looking for Teresa Fattorini.

I, the graceful studies

sometimes leaving and sweaty papers,

where my first time

and the best part was spent on me,

form the balcony of the paternal hostel

listen to the sound of your voice,

and the fast hand

that traverses the tiring canvas.

I watched the clear sky,

the golden streets and gardens,

and then the sea from afar, and therefore the mountain.

Mortal language does not say

what I felt within

Well, if there was a need for explanations to understand what true art, literature and poetry are, these verses would be enough, the chimes of the Torre del Borgo would be enough, or the solitary bird nestled among the battlements. It would be enough because art cannot be explained and defined, it does not fit in and has no fixed standards. And because the poet, as the gentile guide who accompanies me to visit Giacomo’s house is saying, “is the one who is emotionally involved in what he sees”. The kind guide does not know that this phrase is descending into my soul and remains engraved in my heart with his lapidary, ineluctable truth. Read, says Lupi, read what you like and don’t waste your money on creative writing courses, read the classics. Read Leopardi, I add, which is always good.

And it is perhaps for this reason that the third book of the Lupi trilogy — with which with the great poet is neither here nor there, I specify again — has a different style from the other two, it allows the fabric of pure and poisonous invective to tear apart, to give way to nostalgia, to regret, to the true core of the Piombino writer/publisher’s theme.