Vintage Cover
Having originally come to my attention during a university class on contemporary fiction, I had been meaning to read Italo Calvino’s metafictional classic for some time. Described by David Mitchell as “Breathtakingly inventive” and heralded as a classic in most parts, it has a coruscating – if difficult and slightly wanky – reputation. After reading it, I can report that it is a bravura piece of writing and much, much more satisfying than some people give it credit for – on Amazon, at least.
Its structure is a complicated postmodernist one, recalling the 1001 Nights, Borges and others, whereby the narrative alternates between chapters told in the second person, addressed to “You” the reader, and the beginnings of ten unrelated novels, which stem from a printer’s error. The novel openings are in a number of different styles, including: thriller, western, romance, detective story, satire and more. This can, of course, disorientate and confuse, not to mention frustrate – so beautifully crafted and appealing are the introductions, so stop-start are the different chapters. But as the second-person chapters’ story starts to take shape, the novel becomes all the more captivating as the reader tries to make sense of all that is happening. There, a romance burgeons between two readers of the original novel, as they try and piece together what has happened to the original. The action that follows is part detective story, part elaborate conspiracy: a tale that takes in oppressive regimes, Japan, shady translators, along with several dead languages and republics.
Many themes central to postmodernism are lightly touched on and explored in detail, such as: intertextuality and the problems of authorship. However, much of the book is devoted to the art of writing: why we do it, how we do it, etc.; it is a “meditation on reading”. Those second-person chapters are fascinating and offer genuine insight, rather than trite truisms. Each sinuous sentence has to be mulled over for some time before it meaning eventually rises to the surface; but, given how slick William Weaver’s translation is, this is never tiring – just part of the literary detective’s work. Indeed, every start of a novel at some point contains a playful analysis of the literary techniques in use and their eventual goals.
In fact, considering what I had read about the book beforehand, I am pleased to report that the most frustrating thing about the novel was actually the clash between the British and American spellings of “Traveller/Traveler”. With its understated love story and screwball plotting, If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller is an eccentric gem. Any ideas or fears of a typically postmodern shaggy dog story are quickly banished by the real things that the book has to say about the art of reading and writing. It really is a must for anyone interested in postmodernism, metafiction, writing or reading. It just goes to show that being serious and playful aren't mutually exclusive.
Italo Calvino
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