Don Carpenter
I venerdì da Enrico's

I love writing, and when I say writing, I don't mean the rhythmic and anonymous tapping on a computer keyboard. No, when I firmly repeat the word writing, I close my eyes and find myself facing the image of a pencil, vivid and imposing, creating a groove on a huge white sheet. It's an arduous task and, indeed, if you think about it, it's no coincidence that the graphite eventually has to break into tiny flakes; a handful of pages is enough to strain a wrist, and it should be so because, damn it, writing involves commitment and sacrifice.

I believe this is the main reason why I have a particular attraction to books like "Martin Eden" and "Ask the Dust," which feature budding writers desperately trying to emerge. I enter a bookstore, "my" bookstore: the one where I have purchased over two hundred and fifty titles over the years, also thanks to your advice, and I come across a cover that reminds me of Carver, Kerouac, Ellroy, Chandler, and who knows how many others, with a typewriter in the foreground, an overflowing ashtray next to it, and a glass of whiskey. The bottle isn't there, but I see it under the table, near many others. She, on the other hand, young, in love, and warm, is in bed under the covers. She sleeps serenely while he, instead of doing what he should be doing, bangs his head against a crooked sentence that just won't straighten out. If it were a CD, it would be Lanegan or Tom Waits with that harsh, rough, and penetrating voice. I don't know the author, but this has never been a problem. In my bookstore, there are sofas, and so after about fifteen pages, I understood that it is a masterful, flowing, and captivating prose that perfectly suits my tastes.

This is exactly how I met Don Carpenter and "Fridays at Enrico's." He is an American author who committed suicide in '95, shortly before finishing the work in question. If you believe that, given the proximity to his death, it is a terrifyingly heavy piece with depressive properties; if that's your first impression, well, I must spell out your mistake in capital letters with a peremptory "W-A-T-E-R." The characters are superbly characterized, the descriptions are not at all lengthy, and the story told is an intriguing one, with episodes that, seemingly disconnected from each other, gradually merge. I don't know why, actually, I do, given the imminent release of Tarantino's new work, and I think back to the way "Pulp Fiction" was shot.

I reread and realize that it's a bit of a strange review: more the result of the desire to write and share a good read from an unknown author than a precise and pointed critique offering the information about the book. But that's how it came out, and since grains of sand are beginning to enter the gears that once seemed so well-oiled, I have no choice but to end it, hoping to at least have piqued your curiosity.