Sandro Veronesi
Settembre nero

In 1972, between the sea of Versilia and the Munich Olympics, Gigio discovers the world, music, and a girl who changes his life. But Veronesi does not write a summer novel: he writes an ending to childhood. And he does it the right way: with fluid writing, simple syntax, clear vocabulary, but without denying himself the possibility of saying complex things, of explaining the nuanced emotions of a boy who lives for little things (at first), and who discovers himself through the gaze of others.

Few things, told well. The protagonist’s summer, Gigio Bellandi, is particularly realistic because it is genuinely not very exciting. A father who isn’t always present (for work…) or is very self-absorbed (his excessive passion for sailing), an Irish mother and her rigidities, a very sharp younger sister forced to battle the scorching sun because of her illness. Uncle Giotti, with his strange habits. Gigio’s obsession with sports, the Olympics, but also linus, his first vinyl records, the music.

But then there’s Astel Raimondi, his first love. Veronesi perfectly captures the struggle of a twelve-year-old—still half a child—in trying to appear charismatic, cultured, and interesting to the girl he is madly in love with. The English (which he knows thanks to his mother), translating Bowie’s lyrics and many others, the first arguments with his parents. And amidst all this, the most beautiful and truthful grammar of love, of first love.

— Siamo stati insieme tutto il pomeriggio senza baciarci. È stato bellissimo.

Veronesi’s writing appears particularly polished, yet spontaneous, and above all attentive to establishing a fast and effective communication channel with the reader. The extremely concise syntax and the simple vocabulary (except for a few hidden gems here and there) create an almost hypnotic bridge that makes it impossible to tear yourself away from the pages, even when not much is happening.

Direct speech is almost absent, as if the author wanted to recreate the feeling that these three hundred pages are truly a report written by Gigio himself, but much later, when he is an adult looking back.

And in any case, even with its lightness, you arrive at the point where childhood ends: a traumatic event, foreshadowed from the very first lines of the book, creating an effect of anxious anticipation. The event is revealed only towards the end, and the consequences are briefly hinted at, always with an affable tone, never pretentious, intelligent but not arrogant—just like this author seems to me.