Italo Calvino is an artist in many different meanings of that word. But his first book, _The Path to the Nest of Spiders_, brings another view to the author. Told from the perspective of the child, Calvino is able to use his fantastic style, as well as his earthy analysis of the situations that arise. The Characters are both real and symbols, from the Sister who shares her bed each night, to the cook that is both an anarchist and a father to the boy. Calvino is truly a master at his craft, and this book shows where he came from, and how he is able to see the world and write about it

The three long stories that comprise this book at first appear to have been slapped together without much concern for whether they work well with one another. Not only were they written at different points in Calvino's career -- "The Watcher" is from 1963, "Smog" from 1958 and "The Argentine Ant" from 1952, but they don't even get the continuity that a single translator might have been able to provide. That's why it's so surprising that a common theme in these works emerges anyway -- namely, that existence is futile and farcical and yet also must be cherished because, in the end, what else is there?

The protagonists of these stories are all seeking ways to somehow make the futility bearable or even meaningful. "The Watcher" portrays Amerigo Ormea, an election observer assigned to a polling place that is actually a mental institution. Amerigo's long-held political convictions are, if not wavering, then at least punch-drunk from having been slapped around so much. The momentous changes once foreseen by him have not materialized, and as a result he is trying to believe that change is a gradual and even mundane process, a matter of "doing as much as you could, day by day." Calvino uses the asylum and its inhabitants a metaphor for democratic society and its odd creatures. In doing so he displays a keen talent for showing up grand arguments like whether democracy is viable for the absurd squabbles they may be at their core -- like whether a ballot sheet has been properly folded, or whether an armless man's vote counts if someone has to go into the voting booth with him. Amerigo struggles to accept that such grotesque banality is the very stuff of democracy. This struggle is sometimes involving and insightful and sometimes not. The force of the story is somewhat blunted by too many philosophical musings on Calvino's part. He may mean to send up the diehard's tendency toward philosophical musings, but they are droning and often repetitive and not particularly exciting to read. Nevertheless, "The Watcher" has a lot to offer. In the other two stories, the main characters also must persevere in the face of circumstances they cannot control. "Smog" demonstrates an acute awareness of environmental peril that seems somewhat ahead of its time. But as in "The Watcher," Calvino's chief concern is how humanity copes. The main character has just moved to the city and is overwhelmed by its filth. He washes his hands compulsively as he observes how the urbanites deal with a dirty fog that is intensifying its grip on the city. One man simply makes the filth a part of himself, living and breathing it with hardly a thought. Another, a factory owner and the worst polluter in the city, tries to redeem himself by funding "The Institute for the Purification of the Urban Atmosphere in Industrial Centers." A worker in one of his factories "didn't try to evade all the smoky gray around us, but to transform it into a moral value, an inner criterion."

Smog is substituted by ants in "The Argentine Ant." A young couple moves into a new home only to find that it -- and the homes of all their neighbors -- infested with millions of the unstoppable insects. The young husband goes neighbor to neighbor in search of a solution. One has a garageful of insecticides and chemicals, and a chuckling anecdote explaining the failure of each one. Another man rigs elaborate deathtraps out of string and gasoline. The woman who rents the houses out simply denies that the ants are a problem even as they bite her on the buttocks and crawl up her back. The town regularly sends out an exterminator, but the residents are convinced he is actually feeding the ants as a way of keeping his job. In both "Smog" and "The Argentine Ant," no one thinks to simply leave. There seems to be a tacit agreement among them that moving would only exchange one problem for another. Calvino's characters are inescapably grounded where they find themselves, learning to live with that which they find unbearable.

This book provides ample evidence of Calvino's skill and vision. It is definitely a worthwhile read.

Published in 1983, this is unfortunately one of the last works by Calvino to appear in his lifetime (He died in 1985). It is apparent that his inspiration had left him and instead of creating great novels, he started dabbling in pseudo-philosophical meanderings. Well, I guess all writers lose their power at some point.

Mr. Palomar is about a man who is so afraid of living in the harsh world of change and interaction that he develops a system of order and analyzation that will explain the reason for everything. For example, at the beginning of the novel he is watching waves crash on the beach. The watching makes him uncomfortable until he puts a logical system in place that will allow him to predict how each wave will rise and fall.

Palomar tries to get at the underlying first cause and reason of everything he encounters. For example, he tries to figure out the language of birds, or the thought processes of an albino gorilla. The problem is that there is always something around which messes up his perfect system and sends him back to the drawing board. There is no plot in this book so no summary will explain what goes on in the book. It is merely one character's ramblings about the world and himself.

Frankly, I thought this book was drop dead boring. I'm all for intellectual head scratching but this book just wouldn't shut up. There is no motion in the novel. It just sits there and expects you to say "great book". Well, that wouldn't be a true statement. There isn't even a shadow of a plot and the whole thing just seems lifeless. I would recommend The Baron in the Trees or Marcovaldo, also by Calvino instead of getting this book.

It's a really nice book in the beginning, presenting the various behaviours and thoughts of Mr.Palomar. Each chapter has a theme of his own and Mr.Palomar is inside it. Fascinating in the beginning, but I found it a bit boring from the half on, when I saw that nothing was really happening.

Italo Calvino's book, "Mr. Palomar," is a superbly crafted novel about an intellectual quest for order and reason in a chaotic and unreasonable world. Should this sound like rather dry and uninteresting reading, be assured that it is not. Calvino is a great story teller, and in Mr. Palomar he has found a character that provides him with a medium, a vehicle, to deliver stories of great beauty, humor, wit and pathos.

In books about the theories of complexity and chaos there is usually a chapter dedicated to the task of explaining that it is only in the boundary between order and chaos that all of the really interesting things are possible, including life. Mr. Palomar's mistake is in thinking that things would be better (or, at least he'd be less anxious) if he could just figure out how to get everything to calmly step over to the "ordered" side of the line. He is the twentieth century's Don Quixote, not on a romantic quest but an intellectual one; not fighting off the advancing windmills (that battle has already been lost), but desperately trying to reason his way into a moment of Zen-like clarity and peace.

It may seem that Mr. Palomar brings to his task of putting the world in order a formidable intellect. He is, indeed, very bright and often brilliant. But Calvino implies early and often that Mr. Palomar doesn't so much possess an intellect as he is possessed by one. Mr. Palomar may have the illusion that he brings his intellect to bear on one thing or another but, in truth, his intellect has its own agenda and Mr. Palomar is simply along for the ride.

It is Mr. Palomar's inability to escape his own intellect that produces both the funniest and saddest moments in the book. The chapter entitled "The Naked Bosom" reads like the misadventures of a philosophical "Mr. Bean." In it, Mr. Palomar is walking along the beach when he spots a young lady sunning herself topless. His initial experience quickly gives way to his trying to deliver a reasonable (a perfectly reasoned) response. Should he look away? Glance? Look for a moment with casual interest? More than casual interest? What is the correct response, free of cultural conditioning? Is his cultural upbringing out of date? As he passes by, he realizes that his thinking wasn't quite right, his response not quite perfect, so he turns around and tries it again ...

By the 4th pass, when he finally thinks he's got it right, the young woman has had enough, covers herself up, grabs her things and storms off. Mr. Palomar's reaction to the young woman's leaving in a "huff" is, as always, intellectually reasonable. He feels insulted that his efforts were not understood and he blames this, implicitly, on her failure to throw off the "dead weight of an intolerant tradition."

Calvino knew that what he was writing would be perceived not only at an intellectual level but also as humor and he crafts his story in a way that pays tribute to both, much as a great composer will intertwine melody and harmony. But he never wants us to forget that these melodies and harmonies are parts of a larger, more subtle theme: Mr. Palomar is imprisoned by a terrible irony: the only thing preventing him from experiencing the moment of clarity and beauty he is so desperate for is the overpowering intellect he is trying to find it with.

Mr. Palomar has far too much reason for the task and absolutely no sense. He can think, but he can't connect. This is why he has absolutely no idea how the young woman on the beach may have perceived him. Worse, he has no idea that she was anything other than a stage prop and audience for his quest for an "enlightened" response. Worse still, for him, he has no idea that he has no idea.

Contrary to what many critics have said of "Mr. Palomar," Calvino is not praising or even paying tribute to intellect or the powers of intellectual (and scientific) observation. His point is that having reason without sense (order without due respect for the messy, chaotic connections that life and living require) is an inescapable trap. In the end, Mr. Palomar's intellect is like a black hole. He begins quite pleased to find that everything comes to mind easily, and then discovers that nothing seems to be getting back out anymore. Then he spirals into himself trying to find some sense of who he is, some place from which to take a stand, but he ends up like a singularity. And then, in an instant, he is nothing at all.

Mr. Calvino makes his point in a way that is never didactic. He makes it in small, often subtle and frequently entertaining steps. If you accompany him along the way, he'll show you ocean waves, turtles, geckos, iguanas and weeds in the front lawn in ways you've never seen before. He'll do the same with goose fat, roof tops and, in another "Mr. Bean" moment, the stars. He'll have Mr. Palomar and an albino gorilla perform a duet for you, and perform a masterpiece in four-part harmony (played staccato, no less) with two birds and a married couple.

This book is without a doubt an intellectual treat, full of profound and deep observations. What makes it a book worthy of a 5 star rating, though, is that it is equally profound in ways our intellects can never fathom.

Qfwfqu, an immortal being, guides the reader through the evolution of Earth. Highly repetetive with no character action.

To the people who hate this book, I grant you the freedom of your opinion, but I have to say, "You don't get it!" This isn't a narrative in the traditional sense of the word. Instead, Calvino has taken complex scientific principles and turned them into stories. Its true that there is a certain lack of character development, as the main character is a one-dimensional atomic particle (pun intended), but even so, Calvino makes him(it?) come alive in his tales. The true feature and attraction of these stories are the situation and worlds that Calvino creates. All that being said, I read this in the same day that I read Cosmicomics, which is a prior collections of similar stories featuring the same character (and, I think, a better book overall), and the artist's conceit wore a little thin. However, if you can give these books sufficient time and space(pun intended again), they are truly fun and beautiful.

Not surprisingly the two early reviews give it 1 and 5 respectively: a book about which it is impossible to be neutral. Confusing,dense, boring writing there is - but also some amazing mathematic/scietific concepts whch Calvino masterly spins into stories - the logic/illogic (which are probably simultaneously both the same and opposite) outcomes baffle and amaze. The final section was more rewarding (being more time-space maths based) - couldn't get a handle on the evolutionary/biological stuff. I also suspect I want to read more about the text and continually get beneath its skin. Will read bits again and again and again. (Not a tour de force of narrative analysis compared to "if on a winter's night..." and castle of crossed destinies)

Calvino is a wonderful writer and a genuine original, someone I've always loved to re-read, year after year. But prepare for a shock with "Hermit in Paris": he's almost a caricature of the rude, snotty, anti-american Leftist who finds "95% of America is a country of ugliness, oppressiveness and sameness, in short of relentless monotony." He meets James Purdy and describes him as "pathetic" (why?)

"American Diary" is a tour of the USA through the lens of an Italian Communist. He describes American housing projects as "prisons built of brick" and "terrifyingly anonymous" -- and while few would disagree, they remain positively cheerful (not to mention well-made) when compared to the European model. Exhibit A: East Berlin. When it comes to sheer cement horror and ugliness, no one can outdo the communists of Europe. And painting raw cement pink and mint green definitely doesn't help alleviate the hideousness of it all. A more squalid region of the world would be impossible to find.

European Communists are amazing to me, they have Yugoslavia, Poland, East Germany - it's right there, right next door! You can drive there in a few hours. They never mention it. They pretend it isn't there.

This book is for readers who already know and appreciate Italo Calvino's major works of fiction. The center piece of this collection of interviews and memoirs is Calvino's notes on his 1959-1960 trip to the United States. The culture shock and fascination/irritation are especially absorbing to those who have been to the places Calvino visited and share Calvino's interests in literature and culture. These reminiscences are also interesting in the context of earlier Italian observers such as Ferruccio Busoni (concert tours 1892-1915) and Giorgio de Chirico (essay about New York in the 1930s).

When I read "If On a Winter's Night a Traveler" I was completely pulled in and engrossed by the creative, crafted nature of the story and of Calvino's abilities. So, years later, I picked up this book of short stories. Since "Winters Night" is really a collection of related short stories, I expected ,uch the same. UNfortunately, I didn't like it as much. This book represents a real cross-section of his work. I found that most of his political allegories were a little too heavy for me. What I found most interesting were the stories that focused on relationships. Mother to son, lover to lover, friend to friend. This is where I was most interested. Since I seem to prefer Calvino in certain types of fiction, this may not have been the best collection for me. If you are a fan of Calvino & are looking for a good overview, this book may be better for you.

this engaging collection of stories shows calvino's versatility.playfully absurd fables, mind-bending exercises in combinatorics, "interviews" with somewhat deranged historical figures, glaciation interrupting a romantic encounter, an encylopedia of all human knowledge... these ideas and more are all expressed with humor, economy and wonderful style.

Experimental, historical, cynical, considerably meditative, innocently gloomy, and yet, as the author indicated, exaggerated, distorted.

It is a hightly sophisticated first try, but as most first novels do, its narrative style lacks the harmony and refinement that the author has worked on in his later career.

I looked for this book for years after reading about it in a Gore Vidal essay I believe. Finally I noticed it was in print again and so I at last read it. This may not be Calvino's best to Calvino fans but to those of us who aren't particular fans of the Calvino style this is his first book and so the style isn't altogether there yet. To me that is a good thing. As artists become masters of their craft they begin to control their material to such an extent that nothing is left to chance. The charm of this book is that Calvino is not in complete command and so the book has a kind of raw innocence very suitable to its subject matter(WWII Italy) and lead character(a child). This is a very earthy book and that word does not apply to later Calvino. All the stuff is here that will later appear in more perfect form, but for this material he is in just the right form.

Hmmm, reading the editorial reviews, I had to wonder if it might be time to go back and read this one again. As I consumate Calvino fan, I have to say I was completely dissapointed by the title essay the editors are raving about here; the one about Calvino's old-school agragarian father trying to spark cinema-going Calvino's interest in hauling veggies. The same story is told under the guise of fiction in Difficult Loves under the title of Lazy Sons, and, in my opinion, it was ten times better. I never thought I'd say it, but I was bored. Bored reading Calvino? Can you imagine? Neither could I. The other four essays were delightful and charming. (Personally I was rather fond of the one about the trash.) The writing/memory excercizes reminded me of work that Calvino's long-time friend George Perec put forth in Species of Spaces. They made me think, or rethink, or be intentional about thinking about, memory and space and existence. That's the sort of thing I want and expect from Calvino. Maybe I'm just sulking about that first essay, but I wanted something better, something more like the other essays there. Maybe, since this book was a compilation of Calvino's unpublished work that was printed posthumasly it was merely and editing mistake that allowed such disparate pieces to appear together. Maybe I would have liked that title essay better on it's own. I dunno. While I certainly wouldn't say don't read The Road to San Giovanni, I might caution Calvino fans to let go of some of their expectations before delving in.

The title alone suggests--at least, to this reader--that one would encounter, in this book, an accessible introduction to Calvino's works that avoids scholarly babble on the one hand and boring plot synopsis on the other. But, alas, the reader who expects this sort of book will have to look elsewhere. In other words, the so-called "average reader" who wants to know Calvino's works but has been intimidated by the professors will not find comfort in McLaughlin's book. To be sure, ITALO CALVINO: WRITERS OF ITALY is a slick, readable effort; but it leaves us wanting more depth in the analysis.

It begins at a rapid pace, and the momentum never really lets up: the biographical section in the Introduction (which sketches an interesting image of Calvino) is brief, and it lures us into the rest of the book. But it's best to read this book for the first time as fast as one can, while not giving too much attention to McLaughlin's analysis. Such an initial reading involves taking a lot on trust; but to give the book critical scrutiny the first time through will most likely lead the reader to irritation and boredom. Best to just get the narrative's sense of flux, to just let McLaughlin's discussion unfold.

And what of those moments when we begin to look at this book more closely, especially when we finish reading a Calvino novel and we now turn to ITALO CALVINO: WRITERS OF ITALY to supplement our reading? Well, a familiar pattern in the book emerges: We see McLaughlin offering an interesting thematic point, raising our expectation for a good analysis, but then he doesn't take it any further. In the chapter on INVISIBLE CITIES, he explores the structure of this novel, stating that "whether one uses numbers or letters to signify the cities, it is always a symmetrical lozenge or diamond-shape structure which emerges, and which suggests that the top triangle of Chapter I, and the bottom triangle of Chapter IX represent complementary, regular patterns which omit the irregularities of reality--this being one of the themes of the work" (102).

"The irregularities of reality": a splendid line, really. But what does it mean? And why are these "regular patterns which omit the irregularities of reality" one of the themes of INVISIBLE CITIES? McLaughlin doesn't pursue the argument any further.

Indeed, the book concentrates heavily on the form (structure) of Calvino's works and seems to neglect the content. True, McLaughlin states in the Introduction that, for Calvino, "structure was an integral part of the meaning of a literary text" (x) and that, taking Calvino's own advice, the "primary focus of this study" is to "discern the different layers of writing beneath the uniform surface of the text" (xi).

To which we say: good Lord. For some reason this approach leaves us hanging, so to speak. As a result, we feel distant from Calvino's works; we feel we haven't gained any insight into his novels.

I should point out that there are inconsistencies in the translations of Italian words and book titles. The chapter on Calvino's style has several: McLaughlin explains that in "Senza colori (1965), 'quella tinta bituminosa' (II, 1336) is rewritten as 'quella luminosita caliginosa' (II, 127)" (158). Unfortunately, this passage is meaningless to readers who don't speak Italian.

If there ever was a writer for the people, I think Italo Calvino fits that role. Fortunately, his books are available to the paperback audience. But this audience, of which I am a proud member, could use the guidance of a sort of pilot-commentary; a friendly companion to Calvino's works; a book not to be read from cover to cover but to be dipped into by non-scholars who would like to know something about a Calvino novel. This is not, then, that book. There are moments when ITALO CALVINO: WRITERS OF ITALY appears to be that ideal commentary--but it quickly falls short of its potential.