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When I was asked to review the most recent book by Franco Borgogno (henceforth, B.) I initially felt a slight sense of unease because it seemed to me that there was no need for it. A review, like a preface or an introduction, usually has the function of interesting the reader in a text, easing their path towards it, suggesting a way in; overall, sparing them a bit of effort and helping them see why it is worth taking time to read the book. In B.'s case, I would say that the best review is the actual reading of the book. Like certain novels where the beginning grabs you by the throat and doesn't let you go, B. has a style that recommends itself. As we know, when something is good, the best criticism is tautology.
B.'s language is direct, expressive, everyday, ‘anarchic’, evocative, playful, ironic. I think he would go along with the suggestion that I often give to young colleagues who come to learn: talk as if they were at the bar, chatting with a friend (without “giving interpretations”). It's an effective trick for helping them shed an irritatingly jargon-heavy and lifeless way of speaking. No editor would give a moment's consideration to texts written in that kind of language. They would simply say that there's no voice. And besides, B. freely admits that he wrote the first draft of Chapter 4 at an outside table of Bar 900 near Cuneo while enjoying “cappuccinos with cocoa and croissants doused in butter and jam” (p. 11).
With his somewhat Falstaffian aura and impetuous manner, those who are acquainted with B. know him as someone warm and affectionate, infectious in his enthusiasm. You realize straight away that he has preserved a great capacity for astonishment. The world does not bore him; he likes being in the world and doing what he does. You listen to him talking in a delicate and persuasive tone and at the same you see the laughter in his eyes. He takes what he does extremely seriously but does not take himself too seriously. If I am dwe