Niccolò Ammaniti
Come Dio Comanda

Let's start from the end. Or the middle.

I really liked the book, but it's not fair. Because aside from "Branchie," which I really couldn't digest (and I even left a bit on the plate), I have always greatly enjoyed everything Ammaniti has produced. Anyway.

What is this book about?
About Cristiano, a thirteen-year-old boy who has the (mis)fortune of being Rino's son. Rino, a forty-year-old neo-Nazi, infallible in his methodical failure, alcoholic and, along with two even more marginalized comrades, a first-class loser who forces his son to live in an unfinished, filthy house, without heating and bla bla bla. He teaches his son to fight, to shoot, to be respected. Teaches him to hate, because if you don't hate, if you don't have anger, others will beat you. But in the end, even if you don't love Rino, at least you respect him a bit.
Even if you think Nazis are the worst of humanity (especially in Illinois). Even if you want to call the child protection services to report that on page one hundred and three that bastard did this and that.

Because even you have sometimes thought that freedom was invented by the rich to screw over the poor. Because maybe in the end, you discover humanity and love even in that drunk and stinking body sprawled on the floor full of cigarette butts. And I won't go further because otherwise I would ruin the plot for you.

I love the way Ammaniti describes characters. All of them. As if he were the Puppet Master. The one who, from a handful of letters, gives a name. A surname. An appearance, a resemblance, a story. An origin. And after, only after describing this, the action.
And the action, perhaps, intertwines with other actions. Maybe a bit later. But in the meantime, the character is there. Three-dimensional. With his mind on the wall covering to remove the dampness from the villa.
In his Mercedes SLK puffing clouds of smoke out the window.
In line. With his pissed-off girlfriend in the seat next to him.
The book is dotted with seemingly marginal characters that serve to give depth to the story. Of names and surnames. Of small towns and streets. Of details. Of useless gestures. Seemingly useless.

The story is still powerful, succinct, raw. I didn't experience dull moments in the reading, nor stagnation. Everything flowed quickly to the epilogue. Where, finally, I could breathe again.

As the experts say. Highly recommended.