That Awful Mess on the Via Merulana

A philosophical novel...murder mystery, this baroque, caustic, and ultimately poignant work has been lauded by no less than Italo Calvino, whose introduction alone is worth the cover price. Carlo Emilio Gadda--in this and in his only other published novel, _Acquainted With Grief_--concerned himself with the exploration of the interrelatedness of things, the never-ending, kaleidoscopic complexities of life, the myriad, frequently interrelated causes that converge to produce every effect. He was also vehemently anti-fascist, as his outraged--and hilariously scatological--rants against the Mussolini regime attest (Gadda started the novel soon after the close of WWII). More delightful still is Gadda's playful love of language, captured brilliantly in William Weaver's translation. (Why do so few translators, of any language, produce work as stylistically and linguistically rich as Weaver's? His work is consistently brilliant.) This is a fantastic novel. Do yourself a favor and buy a copy. Then thank whichever god you believe in that George Brazilier has for so many years kept this masterpiece in print, to the enrichment of us all.

It is a great, original, learned, creative, enthralling novel; yes, sure. But it is also a masterpiece of the detective-story genre it its own right. A bold experiment with languages, but also a grandiose fresco of what life in the capital of Italy was like in the early years of Fascism. And a deformed picture of what Italy has been until a few years ago--and probably still is. Maybe detective Ingravallo, the police official who tries to disentangle the awful mess, is not as cynical as his colleagues Marlowe and Spade (not to mention their legitimate heir, Mr. Rick Deckard); but surely he's as clever as his American counterparts, and has the same uncanny ability to read the destinies of his country in the stories of the people he meets during his inquiries. Some of the linguistic wealth of this novel can get lost in translation (e.g. Gadda's wonderful use of Italian dialects, even more baroque than Chandler's usage of slang), but the beauty of the plot and the i! nsights into common history and individual stories are still there. Highly recommended to all those who think that Kafka, Proust, and Joyce are the only avantgarde classics around.

The book, that is not complete, is about a misterious murder in a middle-class house in Rome just after the rise of fascism. The style of the author is immaginific, resembling baroque. Unfortunately, I think that is very difficult to preserve in an english version the richness of different words in regional italian slang. So, please, read it in italian!!