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Then you reach a point in the book ("Aphorisms on the Wisdom of Life") and you learn that according to Schopenhauer, men can be categorized into two categories: the men of action and the contemplatives.
So you begin to look over your friends: for some it's easy, you think the name and Zap! "Contemplative", you think another name and Zap! "Of Action". For others it is more challenging: you think about their actions, their behavior, and then Zap!
At a certain point, excited by the partially satisfied cataloging fury but still craving one last victim, you wonder: And me? Contemplative or of action?
Difficult, too difficult.
Much easier to identify literary characters: the protagonists of Svevo, for example, are all contemplatives.
Martin and Terry Dean, the brother protagonists of Steve Toltz's debut novel ("A Fraction of the Whole" Einaudi 2010), are the first contemplative and the other of action.
Martin Dean, paranoid philosopher and grudgeful young man, who spends his days wandering Paris smoking and trying to assess if that city is suitable for being depressed.
Terry, that individual, with a white tank top and colorful tattoos covering his shoulders and arms, who after jumping over the playing field fence runs towards a cricket player with a baseball bat in hand and the evident intention of reducing his head to a fruit salad.
Who influenced whom? Was it Martin with his ideas that turned Terry into a violent criminal or Terry who, with his existence, made Martin paranoid about himself and the masses?
It's a picaresque novel, where many characters come and go off stage, and you move through different settings (Thailand, Australia, Europe), and various issues are tackled: the mass media, the will of individuals, mass society and its idols, rebellion, power. Philosophical and non-philosophical topics that Toltz lets flow as naturally as clouds in the sky.
The author inserts renowned names (Nietzsche is one of the most recurring and the most influential on Martin) showcasing his culture and his philosophical studies.
Thus seducing the reader as if the names of Popper or Freud were enough to resurrect or revive their same "Intellectual Atmosphere" in his book.
In the end, however, all the key subjects of these authors are only brushed over, neither deepened nor truly examined, and the feeling is like that when talking to those tourists who think they become one with the spirit of a city by visiting it for a week.
In the same way, for Toltz, it's not enough to cite Nietzsche for his characters to breathe the fevered spirit of the German thinker.
For this reason, in the end, Toltz's characters never seem truly alive, nor do the places he speaks of seem to have anything authentic. Lacking lived experiences and feeling artificial.
A heavy wall divides the lively imagination of the author from the reader's feelings. Certainly, the solutions he showcases, marvelous metaphors, and bizarre theories (like the "Manual of Crime" of which Martin is the editor), are original and curious and, moreover, the book is always, always on every page entertaining.
Despite being a debut, indeed, Toltz draws on his capabilities showcasing his boisterous sense of humor.
Yes, "boisterous", even if it sounds old and artificial. Read to believe:
"I don't know if this should be a source of pride or embarrassment, but his ancestors dated back to the last shipment of English convicts deposited on Australian soil.
It is true that some were deported for minor offenses like stealing a loaf of bread, but my grandfather’s ancestor was not among these—or rather, perhaps he was, but he had also raped three women, and I don't know if after raping them he stole a loaf of bread while on his way home"
The book is full of hilarious and amusing jokes without losing a thread of seriousness or rhythm.
Martin's observations are convincing, never failing to instill in his poor son Jasper (the story's narrator) about modern society, deception at all costs, and the desire to achieve fame and immortality.
However, after finishing the book,, there remains the sensation of something unexpressed that got lost at the bottom of the author's ambition.
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