Senza sangue

Four men in a beaten up old Mercedes drive to a farm to kill the owner. A war had just finished, but not the hate: during the savage execution, the victim's young son is also killed. However his young daughter who was hidden under a trapdoor, is saved: one of the killers saw her, and the expression on the child's face convinced him to spare her. This is the incipit of "Senza sangue" (Rizzoli, 110 pgs., Euro 10), the latest literary effort of Alessandro Baricco, who remains faithful to his habit of alternating traditional-length novels (since debuting with "Castelli di rabbia", still his best work, up to "City") with those in a lighter and simpler vein (the fortunate "Seta", the monologue of "Novecento").
We were talking about an incipit: if that is so, it extends to the middle of a narration which, moreover, ends with an epilogue of the same length. Hence a story that annuls itself or rather presents itself in rapid images, convinced like the author that existence has meaning in a few dazzling moments. We will not reveal the thread that ends up linking the destinies of the girl and her saver: however, it does relate to the title, refusing the horror and moving towards compassion, reconciliation, under the banner of a love not denied.
Imbued with movie overtones (the initial carnage owes much to Leone of "Once Upon A Time in the West", the young girl in the red skirt is an obvious tribute to "Schindler's List"), Baricco's imaginary comes through in a clear, polished and terse style: and as we know so well, in him talent is not lacking. Nevertheless, the precepts of the work with a message impose an irritating didactic bent, delivering everything in that way, and also burdened by an oratory laisse: the result is modest, although well concealed by the adroit direction of the publishing machine. Like Susanna Tamaro, for Baricco, who seems more and more a lay and calmed down version of her, the release is the event. And if the critics express reservations about the book, the writer will perhaps be crying all the way to the bank: it was Alfred Hitchcock who said it, and the comparison stops here.

Francesco Troiano

Senza sangue

Four men in a beaten up old Mercedes drive to a farm to kill the owner. A war had just finished, but not the hate: during the savage execution, the victim's young son is also killed. However his young daughter who was hidden under a trapdoor, is saved: one of the killers saw her, and the expression on the child's face convinced him to spare her. This is the incipit of "Senza sangue" (Rizzoli, 110 pgs., Euro 10), the latest literary effort of Alessandro Baricco, who remains faithful to his habit of alternating traditional-length novels (since debuting with "Castelli di rabbia", still his best work, up to "City") with those in a lighter and simpler vein (the fortunate "Seta", the monologue of "Novecento").
We were talking about an incipit: if that is so, it extends to the middle of a narration which, moreover, ends with an epilogue of the same length. Hence a story that annuls itself or rather presents itself in rapid images, convinced like the author that existence has meaning in a few dazzling moments. We will not reveal the thread that ends up linking the destinies of the girl and her saver: however, it does relate to the title, refusing the horror and moving towards compassion, reconciliation, under the banner of a love not denied.
Imbued with movie overtones (the initial carnage owes much to Leone of "Once Upon A Time in the West", the young girl in the red skirt is an obvious tribute to "Schindler's List"), Baricco's imaginary comes through in a clear, polished and terse style: and as we know so well, in him talent is not lacking. Nevertheless, the precepts of the work with a message impose an irritating didactic bent, delivering everything in that way, and also burdened by an oratory laisse: the result is modest, although well concealed by the adroit direction of the publishing machine. Like Susanna Tamaro, for Baricco, who seems more and more a lay and calmed down version of her, the release is the event. And if the critics express reservations about the book, the writer will perhaps be crying all the way to the bank: it was Alfred Hitchcock who said it, and the comparison stops here.

Francesco Troiano