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3008 pages, Hardcover
First published September 3, 2015
This Bortolasso was a middle-aged laborer, strong as a mule and dirty as a boar. He couldn’t have been a pure idiot: it’s more likely that he belonged to that human type of which it’s said in Piedmont that they play the fool in order not to pay taxes. Sheltered by the immunity granted to the weak of mind, Bortolasso performed his job as a gardener with extreme negligence. It was a negligence that bordered on a primitive astuteness: all right, the world had declared him irresponsible, no it must put up with him as such, in fact provide for and take care of him.Perhaps the most endearing is a story about a prehistoric wanderer who has a gift of finding and manipulating lead as he shares it with the world during his travels. And of the few truly autobiographical stories is one about being in Italy after Mussolini fell and before he was sent to Auschwitz, when he described the real effects of fascism, a timely lesson for today:
To write melancholy, crepuscular poems, and not even very good ones, while the world was in flames, seemed to us neither strange nor shameful: we proclaimed ourselves enemies of fascism, but in fact fascism had worked in us, as in almost all Italians, alienating us and making us superficial, passive, and cynical.And his thoughts about what the administrative, bureaucratic trivialities of working do to us, often without our cognition, become literary:
.…at that time I hadn’t yet become acquainted with the frightening anesthetic power of company papers, their capacity to hamper, muffle, blunt every flash of intuition and every spark of intelligence.As one who never really “got” science, Levi goes on to write with a passion about chemistry, had I been exposed to it as a young person, still wouldn’t have led me to study science, but it would have sparked a respect for the beauty and poetry behind it. Much like, as one who is not a musician, the sounds of Duke Ellington and the music that inspired him have meant so much to me.
Work is fiction’s greatest blind spot. Work occupies more of our hours than sleep, love, and family, yet it’s rare to find a novel that takes as its main subject the daily routines, obligations and petty indignities that consume most of our lives…The earliest novels, written by people wealthy enough not to have to work, tended to be about the lives of people wealthy enough not to have to work. The subject of work has been largely avoided ever since…This is a fun collection, mostly consisting of extended monologues of his colleague, Faussone, a construction specialist who gets to travel the world. I get the sense that Levi used this as a writing exercise, to force himself within certain literary constraints. Not classic literature, but an interesting addition to a comprehensive anthology.
“Come to think of it, you look Jewish, too. We’ve seen some strange things, but this beats them all: a band of Jews wandering around Poland with weapons stolen from the Poles, passing themselves off as partisans, the sons of bitches!”How is it possible that this, Levi’s only novel, has never come to my attention before? That it hasn’t been made into a movie? Perhaps because it was published in the early 1980s. Had it been in the 1960s, it would have fit in nicely with WWII-themed movies of the decade; Richard Burton or Clint Eastwood and a bunch of other stock actors come to mind. And it’s a story that few know about. Small gangs of partisans fighting invading Nazis and collaborating locals. In this case it’s in the closing year of the war and the first months of peace and an amalgamation of Jews as they make their way from Russia to Italy in hopes of one day making it to Palestine.
To reenter Bude, we have to cross a space cluttered with piles of girders and metal frames. The steel cable of a winch cuts across our path, and Alex [the Kapo in charge of Levi's Kommando or squad of prisoners] grabs hold of it to climb over: Donnerwetter, he looks at his hand, black with thick grease. In the meantime I have joined him. Without hatred and without contempt, Alex wipes his hand on my shoulder, both the palm and the back of the hand, to clean it; he would be amazed, the innocent brute Alex, if someone told him that today I judge him on the basis of this action, him and Pannwitz and the innumerable others like him, great and small, in Auschwitz and everywhere.