I've tried reading Italo Calvino several times now. He's an author who, in theory at least, I really feel I should like, but when I actually sit down with one of his books open in my lap, I just can't seem to get any traction.
There were some good stories in this one early on, but eventually I had to be honest with myself: I felt like I was pushing myself through a sandpit about halfway through this latest fling with Italo. Standing at the stove with the book in one hand, stirring a pot of oatmeal with the other, I concluded that life is too short and there are too many books I'd much rather be reading right now. I gave myself permission to give up. I broke off our brief affair.
Maybe it's still not the right time for me and Italo. Just last year, I didn't get James Tate at all. After reading about half of his "Return to the City of White Donkeys", I'd become so disenchanted by his brand of "enchantment" that I'd decided to forego the rest and repurpose the book as a substrate for collages. Fortunately, I never got around to it. Because now I can't get my eyeballs on enough James Tate. Go figure.
Sometimes, it "just be's that way." Maybe it be's that way with Italo Calvino, too. We'll see.
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