What books will you read while on vacation?

In these last days of July I burned the perfect Christmas book and it is The kingdom of glass Lawrence Osborne, a delightful Scottish entertainment whose greatest value, if I can afford it, is not so much the style or plot that seems somewhat copied from another author’s novel, but the climate, the monsoons and skyscrapers gone. This is what I am asking for a “book for the holidays”, free from compulsory and working reading of winter, above all from the atmosphere, i.e. places, journeys, ambiguous and confused characters. Coming to Greece with a sold out Leigh Fermor portfolio, I wonder if I should quit Farewell to Anatolia by Didò Sotiriù (Crocetti), a classic of contemporary Greek literature who tells the story of the tragic expulsion from Turkey in 1922, or whether Panama tailor John Le Carrè (Feltrinelli), whom I found at a stall a few weeks ago and who I always wanted to read, but – as they say – I only saw the movie. Espionage is perfect, the older the more you like it, but I might opt ​​for a more serious and contemporary patina by finally deciding to read Surface Mathias Enard (and / or), who of course I know is more than a fictional novel, but which I imagine is perfect for navigating the Mediterranean. In the second half of the month, I will be in Croatia for reading Lake Kapki Kassabova (still Crocetti), a diary and family saga, set in the lakes region bordering Greece, Albania and North Macedonia, about which I read some very convincing reviews. In the corner of the mind, however, there is also the idea of ​​zeroing everything and devoting yourself only Dunes by Frank Herbert, which they gave me the first Italian edition and which I had been planning to read for some time, of course never having a very slow horizon to deal with its 500 dense pages. A few days left, I may be influenced by external factors and reset the list to think about a new one. I would like to find the perfect balance between the tightness of hand luggage and the realism of not being able to read everything announced, but that’s the word. (Cristiano de Majo)

I started reading Life like many others About four times in at least three years, even taking it with me on a holiday in the Balkans, and I never got past the first fifty pages. I tried stubbornly and in those four tries I was still reading those first fifty pages where four friends are looking for a new apartment for Jude and Willem, and the reader is not yet clear who says who’s who, who does what, and even just the characters’ faces like the narcotic writing of Yanagihara dictates. Finally, after exhaustive discussions with friends and colleagues – “This is obviously not the right time or oh, maybe you just don’t like it” – I always put it aside, frustrated by disappointment, until last winter. Maybe because he wasn’t there Towards the skyand we came back to talk about Yanagihara, it was because the right moment had finally come, thanks to TikTok who sent me daily analyzes and discussions that I would like to participate in, the fact is that for the first time since he bought Life like so many others ” I started reading it, got over fifty pages the same first evening, and was done in two weeks reading it anyway, crying often late into the night. I thought a lot about it, talked a lot about it with people who had read it for years and who had the ability to bear with me enough, I found comfort in the TikTok kids who had the same doubts as me, but most of all I bought it with some certainty Towards the sky thinking – here, I’ll finish it right away. It was predictable, I was stuck in the first fifty pages. Since February. This summer, of course, I carry it with me along with other readings that I want to retrieve, including Sky by Mieko Kawakami (his Breasts and eggsinstead, I have devoured it, and it’s probably one of my favorite books ever.) I’m still in the first fifty pages, but August is still the longest month of all. Sylwia Schirinzi

Addictions are not only related to alcohol, drugs and love, but also sometimes develop. Holidays. I have a habit and I like to come back to a place where I can call in the summer after the summer House. This year, for the first time in years, I will not go to Circeo (despite the virtuous “Terracina Model” these days sponsored by a future prime minister for the sovereign rebirth of the country) and some books that I will take with me Aeolian beaches, perhaps equally bourgeois, but very much , very different from those of the Pontine, have an echo of coastal pines on the Appian Way. By chance, as I later realized, these were the Strega Awards, in the years when the Strega Awards were significantly different from today – with fewer tours, social networks, and five extended ones. There is of course Catholic school (Rizzoli), finally confronted, perhaps overwhelmingly encouraged by the film’s irreversible ugliness. Bought twice in two versions: the first in a bookstore, from the Aleph pocket series, with pages thinner than in Meridiani Mondadori, 1,200 pages condensed to a thickness of 5 centimeters, practically unreadable. Rizzoli, if you read these lines: think again. Then redeemed in the original edition on MareMagnum, an uncomfortable but very legible hardcover and patience for comfort, which more and more shows what it is: the road to the ruin of the world. Then, intrigued by an Instagram account that often photographed the underlined excerpts (you see, publishers: it works!), I ordered three Giorgio Montefoschi books, starting with Father’s house (Bompiani, Premio Strega 1994), between Rome, Anzio and Savoy, continuing the previous two, The third woman (Theseus’ ship) e Hidden face (Bompiani). However, summer is also the perfect month I think to plunge into the darkest gorges of the 20th century and therefore recovered from the library, I will also take Maybe Esther (Adelphi) of the German-Ukrainian writer Katya Pietrowska: a (true) family story that begins with the Babij Yar massacre – the Kiev moat, where in 1939 the Nazis murdered nearly 40,000 Jews in two days, and then bombed by Putin doubts – and which then meanders through Odessa, Warsaw, ghettos, extermination camps, and endless Soviet plains in search of the damaged and scattered roots of the multiple invasions that hit Ukraine. (Davide Coppo)

My happiest summer memories don’t involve the sea, friends, flirting or exploration, but endless days spent reading alone. I have a tradition: I focus on the author and read whatever he wrote, or almost everything. I started by accident stealing books from my mother, and one summer I read all of Isabel Allende. The last time I was able to do this was probably 7 years ago, when I read everything to Virginia Woolf – but everything really. Rinse that is the biography of the dog (very beautiful, I recommend it) – then I was never able to do it again, also because when I started working seriously my “summer” decreased and three months became the two central weeks of August. Two weeks of crazy vacation, during which I read one book without even being able to finish it. Two years ago Golden notebook Doris Lessing, last year God of illusions by Donna Tartt. Both wonderful, but I have no idea how they ended and I’m afraid I will die without knowing it. This year, I force myself to read a gift card that was given to me a few months ago that I never even opened: Patricia Highsmith’s diaries. Ah, if I could go back to the glorious hunger of my youth as an introvert, this summer, apart from his diaries, I would have shot all his “smaller” works: Little tales of misogyny, The ransom of the dog, Beach of doubtetc. I would start with Deep waters from 1957, the book that inspired that shitty movie starring Ben Affleck and Ana de Armas that came out on Amazon Prime a few months ago. And I will close with the last one who wrote: Summer idyll (perfect title), published in 1995, which he summarizes as “a portrait of mankind in a disorderly, apathetic and reluctant life” (I love us). I will never do it: much more realistically, I will force myself to read a few random pages of the diary (there are 1000 of them in total), and I will satisfy my hunger for thrillers by listening to shocking news told by Elisa True Zbrodnia while cleaning up. (Clara Mazzoleni)

When it comes to choosing the right books for the holidays, I have no real criteria to help me make my decision. I usually walk by weight: they have to be big, thick books with many pages. It is also a way to deceive yourself and make excuses. Each time I delude myself that on vacation I will finally have time to read that I miss the rest of the year: of course that’s a lie, I don’t miss time in any season. Aware of this illusion, I make sure that I have an excuse prepared: I chose books that are too big, it’s normal for me to fail to read everything. This year, when choosing the “big book”, I focused on three anthologies: Hugo Awards 1976-1983, WR Burnett’s gangsters (Longanesi) and Cyberpunk. An absolute anthology (Mondadori). I ended up choosing the latter because the news that Google had finally decided to fire Blake Lemoine – an engineer who said the AI ​​he was working on for Big G had become aware – made me want to get back to the Sprawl . In the end, I think I’ll just read again Neuromancer William Gibson, but at this point I am nurturing the illusion of completing the Holy Trinity of Cyberpunk by rereading as well Snow disaster Neal Stephenson e Broken motherboard by Bruce Sterling. Since I will be spending the summer in Milan, I thought it would be wise to also read about the consequences of prolonged exposure to high temperatures for the human mind: The old man from above (Adelphi), the story of Hasan i-Sabbah, founder of the Order of the Assassins, seemed to me the right title. To balance the sand and sun of a Medieval Persian, I’ve also added an adventure book between the dark and ice of the North to my summer reading list: The legendary street atlas of Iceland (Hyperborea) which is also a tribute to one of my favorite tiktokers (@greipjokes). Finally, after moving to Milan for three months, I found mid-August to be the best time to get to know the city beyond the stretch of road that connects my home with the editorial office Studio magazine. Of course we don’t talk about going out before sunset so I decided to let Dino Buzzati tell me about Milan: Antonio Dorigo, the protagonist Love, he spends most of his time wandering around town looking for Laide, and it seemed like a good idea to follow him on his obsessive walks. Of course, z Love it’s Milan in the sixties and Antonio Dorigo is a kind of Italian Humbert Humbert, but I’ll have to start somewhere. (Francesco Gerardi)

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