Grim reaper

There’s a jolly piece by Andy McSmith in today’s Independent. Entitled Dancing on their graves and triggered by Tina Turner’s unsurprisingly cool response to her ex-husband’s demise, it casts an eye over some of the more memorably sour, if not downright cruel, reactions to other people’s deaths. As someone who’s never been at all afraid to say good riddance at the news of some despicable shit shuffling off his or her mortal coil, I thoroughly enjoyed the article and am looking forward to being able to celebrate the sound of, say, Margaret Thatcher or Eggs Benedict’s bucket being resoundingly kicked.

On a style note, this short post contains four different ways of referring to mortality (plus one in the title). You may have noticed and wondered why. The fact is that I’ve decided to avoid repetition, that bulwark of robust English prose, and adopt the Latinate use of synonyms as a gesture of goodwill towards my Italian readers. I do this without irony. Pietro Citati, kiss my ass. Ovvero Osculate my posterior.

On a purely informative note, the first pages to appear if you Google ‘death’ are two Wikipedia articles on, first, a death metal band called Death and, second, death metal music itself. These are followed by a fascinating site called the Death Clock, which tells you how long you’re likely to live and provides a countdown, in seconds, to the actual moment of, er, death. (Yes, back to repetition.) It’s a fun thing to do. By the way, optimism helps.

A post for Tyla

This is a post for Tyla, who’s depressed about the run-up to the US presidential elections. As you say, Tyla, “Just answer the question!” In the meantime, I’ll try to keep you amused with my potted accounts of why nothing works here either.

The image is the work of Chris Lee Jones and can be found, attached to the front of a T-shirt, at the fabulous Threadless T-Shirts. You may still be in time for Christmas. Even if you aren’t, the sentiment this expresses is timeless, now that history, as Fukuyama told us, is dead. Wear it with whatever. Pride. Hell, it’s all the same shit.

Manu Chao: La Radiolina

I love Manu Chao, and I love his new album, La Radiolina. If you love him too and you’d like to download one of the best tracks, take advantage of today’s Guardian offer and click here.

John Updike: Terrorist

Incredibly, Terroristis the first Updike novel I’ve read (I know, I know…) and, on the heels of De Lillo’s disappointing Falling Man, with which it has several points in common, I found it a far better book. It takes on one element of post 9/11 America – what makes a terrorist? – and, unlike De Lillo, produces a portrait that hits home because of the unexpected sympathy it evokes. Updike’s terrorist, the son of an artistic life-loving Irish nurse and an Egyptian exchange student who disappeared when Ahmad was three, is a refined, fastidious young man, respectful and self-respecting, utterly three-dimensional, in many ways a son of whom anyone would feel proud. Under the thrall of his local imam, yet also aware of his imam’s failings, Ahmad is slowly drawn into a web of fundamentalist extremism, with the inevitable consequences (sort of). What makes the book so engaging and effective is Updike’s refusal to demonise Ahmad himself. On the contrary, he’s wormed his creative way into the boy’s predicament with enormous skill, ending up as close to him as Ahmad’s neck-vein is to God. Indeed, the person who might be considered to suffer most from the novelist’s pitiless gaze is the obese wife of Ahmad’s school counsellor, Jack Levy. Levy, in many ways the counterpoint to Ahmad, at least partially corroborates the views of the boy as he gazes on the world around him. There’s a sense in which Updike’s own distaste seems to inform the characters, maybe to the novel’s detriment, but it’s refreshingly ecumenical, extending well beyond the conniving imam to the vacuous self-aggrandising secretary of state.

The fact that Updike has chosen to work with a small group of characters and to use a tightly constructed, almost thriller-like, plot leads to one or two moments in which disbelief must usefully be suspended, but this shouldn’t detract from the overall impact of the book, nor the excitement of the final chapter.

Chequebook politics

Berlusconi’s famous for the lavish gift he bestows on friends, colleagues, employees, visiting heads of state. He’s fond of inscribed gold watches but anything flashy and expensive will do, so long as it encourages (or rewards) loyalty and impresses his underlings. Just ask Putin, or Blair. This time, though, he seems to have been a little too explicit about the nature of the loyalty he expects.

Yesterday’s Repubblica contained news of an investigation being conducted into allegations that the corrupt buffoon tried to buy the vote (or absence during the vote) of centre-left senator Nino Randazzo and other unnamed senators. Randazzo was personally offered a post in the new government and all his electioneering expenses if he brought Prodi’s government down. Indeed, he was actually shown a contract to this effect. Randazzo refused il Capo‘s generous offer.

Berlusconi was also in contact with Agostino Saccà, head of RaiFiction. During one of their chats about how to use public service television to massage the whims of his political allies (as in, Bossi wants a TV drama based on Frederick Barbarossa), Berlusconi opens his heart.

“Socialmente mi sento come il Papa: tutti mi amano. Politicamente, mi sento uno zero… e dunque per sollevare il morale del Capo, mi devi fare un favore. Vedi se puoi aiutare…”. (Socially,I feel like the Pope: everyone loves me. Politically, I’m nothing…so if you want to improve il Capo’s morale, you’ve got to do me a favour. See if you can help…)

This touching confession is followed by the names of four aspiring actresses. They aren’t just friends, or friends of friends, or daughters of friends, of Berlusconi. One of them, a certain Evelina Manna is also ‘close’ to a centre-left senator who, according to Silvio, will help him bring down the government if his totty gets taken on.

Naturally, there’ll be something in it for Saccà as well. Berlusconi gives his word. And il Capo’s word is his bond.

Giuseppe Mallia: Fichi d’India

This is hanging in the kitchen, by the fridge. The paint extends beyond the board onto the frame, reinforcing the immediacy of the picture and giving it an iconic authenticity, as though its meaning could not quite be contained. It’s fields of colour, naturalistic in only the most rudimentary way, a quote from Giuseppe’s childhood. It could almost be used to illustrate the letter C for Cactus in a primer.

Books of the year

Picador asked me to write something about the books I’ve most enjoyed this year. I did. You can read it here.

The Scent of Cinnamon (again)

Another small but perfectly-formed review of The Scent of Cinnamon, this time from the Oakland Tribune. You can read it here. It’s wonderful, as usual, to be mentioned in the same paragraph as Alice Munro, but I’m particularly pleased that the reviewer also noticed Adam Haslett’s story, one of my own favourites from the O. Henry Prize Stories 2007.

The Almost Corner Bookshop

Once upon a time there was a bookshop in Rome called the Corner Bookshop. It still exists, but it’s moved slightly up from the river – wisely, as climatic things go – and is now the Almost Corner Bookshop. It’s run by the delightful Dermot O’Connell, has a poetry section that would put many far larger bookshops to shame and has already ordered two copies of Little Monsters. If you’re in Rome and have nothing to read and want to go to a genuine bookshop (i.e. one where the owner likes, and knows about, books) you could do an awful lot worse than pass by Via del Moro 45 and say hello to Dermot. The shop’s in Trastevere, just a few doors away from Mario’s, a trattoria I once couldn’t live without (in the most basic sense), so you can combine the visit with any number of other pleasurable things (the Minimumfax bookshop just up the road isn’t bad either). And in most cases you won’t spend any more than you would if you bought the books at home (assuming Rome isn’t your home). Come on. You’ve read Doris Lessing’s Nobel speech (I hope). Now buy the books. Read. Turn off the computer Stop blogging. Read. (Oh God.)

Lest we forget…

… the true meaning of Christmas. This authentic mooning elf, and other festive delights, including a rabbit nativity, Mother Teresa breath spray and the world’s grossest cooking tool, can all be found here.