Other People’s Trades - Primo Levi (Italian)
These essays are two or three pages long; many have a scientific subject, for Levi was, at heart, a chemist. What’s here is mostly enjoyable, though Levi sometimes goes over my non-scientific head. I don’t think he should have quit his chemist’s job to become a full-time writer. At the end of this book he admits that he finds nothing compelling to write about, and I couldn’t help but think of his suicide. Still, these pieces are not dark, and some offer up a hard-earned wisdom.

Viper’s Tangle - Francois Mauriac (French)
What we get is a letter a man is writing to his wife, to be read after his death. An interesting (though restrictive) format, but Mauriac uses it to promote his religious beliefs. The book is monotonous, tiresome and murky.

Flying to Nowhere - John Fuller
A concoction of images without form or purpose. Many of these images are bizarre and gross, but they’re rendered in a delicate prose; this mixture induces queasiness. If I hadn’t read good novels by poets, I’d say, after reading this one (or, rather, part of it), that they shouldn’t write them. The faults and difficulties I find in some poetry – particularly obscurity and pretentiousness – are evident even in the book’s title.

The Easter Parade - Richard Yates
Grueling, as is usual with Yates. The book follows the lives of two sisters, from youth to old age, but the narrative is lopsided; at first they’re given equal attention, then Sarah is pretty much abandoned. It becomes Emily’s story (which is one unhappy love affair after another); Sarah appears late in the book as more of a mess than she was when we left her. I found it all depressing, but I had little empathy for the two women; what should have moved me didn’t. Yates is an autobiographical writer, and it’s notable that the strongest episode involves a poet. I saw Yates in this character, observing himself through the eyes of Emily as she loses all love for him. This masochiostic portrayal stands out in a book that sometimes reads like a case study. I think Yates struggled with Parade; even the structure seems cobbled together, as if Yates were trying (and failing) to find the right path. Still, he makes his point again: Life is hard, full of disappointments and failure. This is another one of his tragedies of the commonplace, though he did it best in his first novel, Revolutionary Road.

The Invisible Player - Giuseppe Pontiggia (Italian)
A intellectual/emotional puzzle. It begins with an unsigned article in a scholarly journal on the etymology of the word “hypocrite.” The professor (that’s his only name) at the center of the book takes the article as a personal attack and begins a search for its author. Yet the search becomes unfocused, ambiguous. Odd characters (suspects) abound, the plot takes strange detours. All this is confusing but not quite frustrating, because the ideas on every page have vitality. The ending is both concrete (a character kills himself) and diffuse (there’s a “so what?” attitude to the death); we still know nothing. Pointlessness may be the point of this whole excursion, though for me the lack of something stunning, after all the complex buildup, was a letdown. Still, the book went into unchartered territory, and the trip was worth taking.

The Muses Are Heard - Truman Capote
Pleasant – no axes to grind, no character assassinations. Well-written – of course. An interesting look at the Communist Soviet Union. But no depth, so it was merely a diversion.

An Only Child - Frank O’Connor
This is not a successful autobiography. O’Connor is too emotionally reticent; he states feelings but is wary about showing them. His mother emerges fairly well, but O’Connor doesn’t. Minor characters come alive more fully than he does. This shadowy boy is not someone I cared about. The efforts at humor are creaky. When he grew into manhood (and the IRA) I had enough.

Therese - Francois Mauriac (French)
The book begins with Therese’s criminal case (poisoning her husband) being dismissed for lack of evidence. Yet she will never be free from that crime. Never, to the end of her sad life. This is a psychological study of what the author calls an “odious character.” Yet the “odious” Therese shares a common humanity with us all. Life, for her, is a struggle in which her terrible adversary is herself. There’s much here that’s true and incisive (but so unpleasant that it’s commonly swept out of sight). Yet the book has major faults. It’s so fixed on states of mind that it makes for laborious reading; a muddled and inconsistent plot doesn’t help. Also, the intensity sometimes moves into melodrama; Mauriac went full out when he should have pulled back. The final section is burdened by endless (it seems) people and events and complications. One complication – the young man becoming romantically involved with the aging Therese – rings false. Mauriac made bad choices. Still, parts of this book have the potency of a poison – like the arsenic Therese gave her husband.