Insomma, dopodomani, a Venezia, c'è la prima proiezione del film tratto dal romanzo (pare si concentri molto sulla storia d'amore con Miriam, comprensibilmente); oggi, invece, esce nelle librerie Sulle strade di Barney, di Christian Rocca.
Naturalmente, lo leggerò. Anche perchè se ho deciso di comprarmi il romanzo, qualche anno fa, è solo grazie ai suoi post sull'argomento.
Qui c'è un'intervista all'autore del libro.
Qui sotto c'è un breve estratto:
I was a voracious reader, but you would be mistaken if you took that as evidence of my quality. Or sensibility. At bottom, I am obliged to acknowledge, with a nod to Clara, the baseness of my soul. My ugly competitive nature. What got me started was not Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilyich, or Conrad's The Secret Agent, but the old Liberty magazine, which prefaced each of its articles with a headnote saying how long it would take to read it: say, five minutes and thirty-five seconds. Setting my Mickey Mouse wristwatch on our kitchen table with the checkered linoleum cloth, I would zip through the piece in question in, say, four minutes and three seconds, and consider myself an intellectual. From Liberty, I graduated to a paperback John Marquand "Mr. Moto" novel, selling for twenty-five cents at the time in Jack and Moe's Barbershop, corner of Park Avenue and Laurier in the heart of Montreal's old working-class Jewish quarter, where I was raised. A neighborhood that had elected the only Communist (Fred Rose) ever to serve as a member of Parliament, produced a couple of decent club fighters (Louis Alter, Maxie Berger), the obligatory number of doctors and dentists, a celebrated gambler-cum-casino-owner, more cutthroat lawyers than needed, sundry schoolteachers and shmata millionaires, a few rabbis, and at least one suspected murderer.