I discovered Italo Calvino in 2007. I read all of Cosmicomics and was amazed at all of the unique conceptualizations that he dreamed up and put to paper. It was truly an amazing creation of space in simple words on a page for me. And I was in love.
All I knew was that he was a European author and his works were translated from English and he had died rather young, at only 61. But he was a dreamer. I understood him on a level that connected me to his thoughts instantly. It was magic.
Years passed. And then one day I finally walked into a used book store that was closing here in town and selling all their stock for incredible prices. In this crazily organized book shop, which I completely regret missing out on its eclectic idiosyncrasies earlier than its grand closing sale, I happened upon another Italo Calvino book, If on a winter's night a traveler.
It was an immediate purchase, without any thought of giving it up for all the other Books I Must Purchase Because They Are All Books I Have Been Meaning to Read or Books I Must Own Because My Mother Taught Me to Cherish Them. In any case, it was mine soon after.
I went home, put it upon my shelf proudly, and in our recent move misplaced it. Then slowly, like a soft forgotten song, the book slowly came into my mind and it grew, and it grew, and it grew until all I could hear was the call of this book to be read and cherished and loved and smelled.
So I went on a search the other day. Amidst my boxes of books I still have yet to unpack, I dug through and found it in the very last box on the bottom in the back of our office.
And last night, I snuggled in, put my feet up (no hammock here, unfortunately), made sure that the children were in bed, waited oh-so-patiently for my husband to stop talking at me, took the dog out to pee, took my medication, got some water, but not too much because then I would have to pee, snuggled back in bed with the covers on without getting myself too warm, and began to read the book.
Immediately I was re-immersed. As a book lover, the prologue itself is worth purchasing the book to read. He understands us all so well as the reader. Of course he was more than likely a fairly avid reader himself. But he never shies away from every nuance or secret closet pleasure we have or need as a reader.
And then tonight, reading chapter 1 of the book and again, it feels as if he is giving me a story and teaching me; guiding me in how to write all at once. It is beautiful and it is amazing and it is his beautiful mind that plays in every word on every page. I am in love.
Excerpt taken from paragraph one of the first chapter of Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveler:
"The novel beings in a railway station, a locomotive huffs, steam from a piston covers the opening of the chapter, a cloud of smoke hides part of the first paragraph. In the odor of the station there is a passing whiff of station cafe odor. There is someone looking through the befogged glass, he opens the glass door of the bar, everything is misty, inside, too, as if seen by nearsighted eyes, or eyes irritated by coal dust. The pages of the book are clouded like the windows of an old train, the cloud of smoke rests on the sentences. It is a rainy evening; the man enters the bar; he unbuttons his damp overcoat; a cloud of steam enfolds him; a whistle dies away along tracks that are glistening with rain, as far as the eye can see."
I am mesmerized. I am in awe. I am so excited to learn about what else this amazing soul will teach me.
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