Small Pleasures, "Happiness. . . ."

I've written of my obsession with books, often in highly opinionated discussions of particular stories that have made it to my very own "favorites" list of beloved reads; going so far as to brazenly suggest that everyone else in the world should and must read and love these works too. 

Such extreme pickiness and solipsism have led me on occasion to throw up my hands at the failure to find a really good read, then over romanticize the past, and finally to fall back on, or into, the nineteenth century (lack of antibiotics but lots of horse manure in the evocative, sepia tinged, city streets notwithstanding!)-  usually in moments of reading despair; it's the kind of hopelessness that clouds one's thoughts after perusing more than a few of those speedily churned out, unfulfilling narratives (of sorts) by folks barely out of their teens; non-entrancing novels arranged on "featured" (or "new in paperback") tables near the front entrance of book stores.

Finally, after desultorily (how's that for a 19th c. word?!?) trying to finish reading what seemed like dozens of boring or just plain ol' silly books this year- although in truth it probably totaled no more than ten or maybe fifteen- some of which were reviewed by smarmy literary periodicals but as it turned out, so what?- I hit pay dirt! For one sweet moment the "find" seemed to make the hours spent trudging through all those other inconsequential pages almost worth it. 

The book's only fault was that it was too brief, almost a novella though not quite. Honestly, I loved it so much I started rereading the whole thing again from scratch days after I finished it. Just wasn't ready to let it go, using the justification for this clingy behavior that perhaps I had missed some incredible gem of phrase or idea the first time around. I mean, who doesn't miss a few subtle sparks of wonderment when you first delve into a book you know almost  immediately you will love and cherish? Happily though, a novel can be read twice, or twenty times. If it were a charlotte russe on the other hand, you would have to buy two. . . or three. . . . Another good reason to gobble books over the years as opposed to, say, charlotte russes.

Ironically because the story imbued so much reading happiness even though it's not especially a happy go lucky kinda' tale, the very title of this wise little book doubly amazed: Happiness as Such by mid-20th century Italian writer, Natalia Ginzburg. Through an especially skillful translation, Ginzburg's powerful, spare use of language in succinctly getting to the heart of everything only adds to the pleasure of meeting her characters, hearing their story. The book also happens to be an "epistolary" novel comprised mainly of letters- another technique of uneven success sometimes assigned to nineteenth century women authors, and not always flatteringly. But here it worked. The author created a super sharp image with just a few well placed clicks of the shutter.

In fact, it's hard to imagine this fantastic work being written in any other way. It's so perfect it almost dares you to ever try to write another word, even a shopping list. 

Now I'm rereading the author's entire (you should pardon the expression) oeuvre (which I definitely am not suggesting anyone must or should do); I'll settle instead for insisting you read this newly translated and published exquisite, little novel.

In return, should you be moved to recommend anything you recently fell head over heels with in reading enchantment, let's post it!