In the opinion of most people in the world, summer is one of the most propitious times for reading. Those of us who professionally dedicate ourselves to devouring many books during the year (in my case, the delirium reaches a hundred), often burst into the dog days swearing that we will take advantage of July and August to get away from the page and thus be able to dive into the seventy podcasts or television series "you can't miss" that we still have pending. But the feeling is elusive, because we only need a few hours away from the greatest pleasure that exists to end up giving in and returning to reading afternoons (the best, complemented by a pajama and potty nap). Yours truly usually takes advantage of summer to read the most extensive books —the bricks, that is— since, during the noise of work, it is difficult to pay attention to elephantine novels or essays.
Apart from reading a bunch of philosophical essays on suicide (for one of those books I say I will do and that will surely remain in the drawer), I have taken advantage of this summer, which fortunately is already ending, to devour the two volumes of Guerra i pau with which the venerable Edicions de 1984 has celebrated its forty years. This anniversary must be applauded, and that Tolstoy's novel can crown a militant and literarily notable catalog, and also special congratulations must be given to the translator Judit Díaz Barneda for a version that must have satisfied her greatly but for which, surely, she has sweated tons of blood and ink. I will not be the one to sing the virtues of this masterpiece of almost two thousand pages, because practically everything has already been said about Guerra i pau. I will limit myself to pointing out that I have been surprised to highlight how a book known for its splendid war scenes explains so well that, basically, the most real war occurs between men and women.
Having finished the journey with Tolstoy, I also took advantage of the summer evenings to immerse myself in a reading adventure of equal demand; to devour the trilogy Blinding (L'Ala Esquerra, El cos y L'Ala Dreta) by the total man of letters Mircea Cărtărescu. I am late with the Romanian author, because a couple of years ago I read the novel that brought him to world fame (Solenoide, also published by Edicions del Periscopi). I write this with some shame, because I have read few prose writers of this extraordinary level. Every time Nobel bells ring, the writer always ends up on the podium of the chosen ones, but as his new devotee I must say that this prize or any other matters little, because here we are facing a writer from another planet. If Solenoide perhaps over-baroquizes its extraordinary tricks, I would say that the Blinding trilogy (again, one must bow before the translator, Antònia Escandell Tur) is the perfect child of the art of Proust and Kafka.
Reading Cărtărescu, you reconcile with the possibility of a literature without any kind of limits, of gigantic ambition.I highly recommend that, whatever the time of year, abandon the little novels that flood the panorama of new releases and launch yourselves into these two colossal works.Tolstoy's thing is an atrocity, but we already knew that for a fact; what turns out to be an impressive breath of fresh air is this monstrosity that Periscopi has given us withBlinding. Fortunately, Catalonia is experiencing a kind of feverish wave with the Romanian author, and from Cărtărescu you can also read his splendidDiaries 1990-2017, the precious bookWhy We Love Womenand the collection of poemsRes, a stratospheric literary piece very well translated by the esteemed Xavier Paulí and edited with the necessary care by Lleonard Muntaner. Reading this author, you reconcile with the possibility of a literature without any limits, of gigantic ambition. I insist, leave the novelty shelf that will soon stress us out and return to summer with this pair of masterpieces.
Fortunately, we arrive at the best month of the year; we are already in the oasis of September. And this year the stabbings will continue; of course!
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