 Today in world literature, we turn to the work of the Italian writer Italo Calvino. A Cuban-born novelist and short story writer, Calvino settled in Turin after World War II. His first novel, The Path to the Nest of Spiders, published in 1947, is based on his experiences in the Italian resistance during the Second World War. In the 1950s, he wrote a trilogy of novels in which he creates an allegory for the political and social situation in post-war Italy. During the 1960s, he continued his work as a fantasist. And in 1972, rather, he wrote Invisible Cities, based on the journals of Marco Polo. His 1979 novel, If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, is intricate enough in casting roles for the reader in embedded stories within stories that it may be compared to the work of a later Italian novelist, Umberto Eco, and his 1981 novel, The Name of the Rose. The short story, The Adventure of a Reader, examined by Dr. David Rothenberg, is taken from a volume entitled, Difficult Loves. Broadly, The Adventure of a Reader is a romantic comedy, the kind of story in which a protagonist overcomes adversity to reach happiness. That, as we will see, that, which our protagonist must overcome, is his own fascination with literature. OK, Italo Calvino is one of the greatest and most beloved of contemporary European writers. He died in 1985, born in 1923. His writing has this unique blend of philosophy and poetry and humor and a deep, perceptive way of looking at the way the world appears. It's very visual and very sort of sensual, but in a kind of guarded and humorous manner. In this story, The Adventure of a Reader, it comes from a book of whole different short stories all titled, The Adventure of, The Adventure of, Little Adventures. Things that actually could happen, probably interesting tales, some of them I tell you, late one night at a bar somewhere, well this happened to me, and they bring up the story, and at the same time they're sort of vested with this deep reflectivity that makes them really sort of gem-like examples of great literature. Listen to the way he describes the situation of his character, Amadeo Oliver, a man obsessed with reading, but who also likes to go from the book into the real world. The coast road ran high above the cape, the sea was below a sheer drop, and on all sides as far as the hazy mountainous horizon. The sun was on all sides too, as if the sky and the sea were two glasses magnifying it. Down below against the jagged, irregular rocks of the cape, the calm water slapped without making foam. Amadeo Oliver climbed down a steep flight of steps, shouldering his bicycle, which he then left in a shady place after closing the padlock. He continued down the steps amid spills of dry yellow earth and agaves, jutting into the void, and he was already looking around for the most comfortable stretch of rock to lie down. Under his arm he had a rolled up towel, and inside the towel his bathing trunks and a book, and Amadeo is obsessed with books. Books are not so much his life, but what he wants to deal with on vacation, as many people take a book to the beach and they're out in this beautiful place and they're staring at the pages. Why? Why is Amadeo so interested in books out there in the sun by the sea? Here on page 636, for some time Amadeo had tended to reduce his participation in active life to the minimum. Not that he didn't like action, on the contrary, love of action nourished his whole character, all his tastes, and yet from one year to the next the yearning to be someone who did things declined, declined, till he wondered if he ever really harbored that yearning. His interest in action survived, however, in his pleasure in reading. His passion was always the narration of events, the stories, the tangle of human situations, 19th century novels especially, but also memoirs and biographies and so on down to thrillers and science fiction, which he didn't disdain but which gave him less satisfaction because they were so short. Amadeo loved thick tomes and in tackling them he felt the physical pleasure of undertaking a great risk, like this class, perhaps, he'd weigh these books to see how heavy they were. So here he's out there trying to read. This is risky to him. He's been dealing with life enough, you don't quite know what he did before, but now it's the book and he's got a guarded view to this whole kind of thing of reading. He's not voracious, really, but careful on the next page. Amadeo had reached the age when rereading a book for the second, third or fourth time affords more pleasure than a first reading, and yet he still had many continents to discover. Every summer the most laborious packing before his departure for the sea involved a heavy suitcase to be filled with books. Following the whims and dictates of the months of city life, each year Amadeo would choose certain famous books to reread and certain authors to essay for the first time, and there on the rock he went through them, lingering over sentences, often raising his eyes from the page to ponder, to collect his thoughts, at a certain point raising his eyes in this way. He saw that on the little pebble beach below in the cove a woman had appeared and was lying there. Distraction. She was deeply tanned, thin, not very young or particularly beautiful, but nakedness became her. She wore a very tiny two piece rolled up the edges to get as much sun as she could, and Amadeo's eye was drawn to her. He realized that as he read he was raising his eyes more and more often from the book to gaze into the air. This air was the air that lay between that woman and himself. This is classic calvino. It starts to, this obvious attractive situation he's starting to philosophize. This was the air that lay between Amadeo and the woman. And he starts describing her as if she's some sort of character, his reading. Amadeo classified the type, the independent woman, on holiday by herself, who dislikes crowded beaches and prefers the more deserted rocks and likes to lie there and become black as coal. He evaluated the amount of lazy sensuality and of chronic frustration there was in her. He thought fleetingly of the likelihood of a rapidly consummated fling, measured it against the prospect of a trite conversation, a program for the evening, probable logistic difficulties, the effort of concentration always required to become acquainted even superficially with a person. And he went on reading. Convinced this woman couldn't interest him at all. So all this calculation in his head, you know. You could imagine it. Have you done something like this at the beach, maybe? But then, you know, he's just sitting there just a little bit too long and he gets restless and he starts getting distracted from this whole reading question. Then what happens? Well, you've read the story. I don't have to tell you. Hope you've done your homework. There's some kids. They find a jellyfish and gets involved. Warren's about them being dangerous. And then, you know, then they make casual conversation. And they try and talk a bit. Amadeo wanders over there. She talks to him and says, hey, you're reading. Do you read all the time? Interesting. Yes. Enjoy yourself. Thank you. He mustn't raise his eyes again, at least not until the end of the chapter. He read it in a flash. The lady now had a cigarette in her mouth and motioned to him and she pointed to it. Amadeo had the impression that for some time she'd been trying to attract his attention. I beg your pardon. Do you have a match? Sorry. Oh, very sorry. I don't smoke. The chapter was finished. Amadeo rapidly read the first lines of the next one, which he found surprisingly attractive. He's talking about the chapter of the book, not the woman. But to begin the next chapter without anxiety, he had to resolve as quickly as possible the matter of the match. Wait, he says, and he goes and finds a match and casually warming up. She says, hey, let's go swimming. They start to get to know each other a little better and she motions him over. Hey, why are you lying there in that hard rock? Come onto the mattress, an air mattress. I'll make room for you. The invitation was polite. The mattress was comfortable. Amadeo gladly accepted. They lay there. He facing in one direction and she the other. She didn't say another word. She leafed through those illustrated pages and Amadeo managed to sink completely into his reading. Significant that she's reading a glossy women's magazine and he's reading some serious novel. The novel had reached the point where the darkest secrets of characters and plot are revealed. And you move in a familiar world, you achieve a kind of parity and ease between author and reader. You proceed together and you would like to go on forever. Now is that the moment we've reached in this story as well, do you now have this easy sense of who these characters are? And it seems like the perfect moment right here. He's not quite sure what to do. He's lying this way. She's lying that way next to each other on the mattress. Something's wrong, he asked. Don't you ever get tired of reading? She said. You could hardly be called good company. Don't you know that with women you're supposed to make conversation? Conversation, he said aloud. What kind of conversation? He extended his hand toward her. There now, if I lay a hand on her, she will surely be insulted by such an unsuitable action. Maybe she'll give me a slap and go away. The woman's reply consisted of a movement, first slow as if resigned and a bit ironic. She lowered her chin to one side to trap his hand, then rapid as if in a calculated, aggressive spring. She bit the back of his hand. Ow, cried Amadeo. They moved apart. Is this how you make conversation? So here you have this guy who is supposed to be this very literary character. He's very comfortable with words and ideas. And here he is sitting next to this woman. He's making the moves on her. He doesn't want to talk to her. Probably because she's reading this magazine and he finds sort of distasteful. Who knows? Since she had sat up with her back propped against a rock, he sat beside her, put his arm around her shoulders, keeping his book on his knees. He turned toward her and kissed her. They moved apart, then kissed again. Then he lowered his head toward the book and resumed reading. Here's the summary of the whole philosophy of this guy, page 643. As long as he could, Amadeo wanted to continue reading. His fear was that he wouldn't be able to finish the novel. The beginning of a summer affair could be considered the end of his calm hours of solitude. For a completely different rhythm would dominate his days of vacation. And obviously, when you were completely lost in reading a book, if you have to interrupt it, then pick it up again some time later. Most of the pleasure is lost. You forget so many details. You never managed to become immersed in it as before. So picture this guy. He's got a vacation mainly to read. He wants to sit on the beach and read and go swimming occasionally. And now he's completely extrapolating. He's kissing this woman. He's imagining where it all leads. He's planning the whole thing in his mind, as people do. And while at the same time being a man of action, he also wants to get away and reflect. And he's not quite sure what's going to happen. What do you think he should do at this point? Pick up his book, run away? Or do you think he's hurtling towards something that can't be stopped at this point? And they were back to the land the evening. The sun was gradually setting behind the next promontory, and then the next and the one after that, leaving remnants of color against the light. From the little coves of the cape, all the baders had gone. Now the two of them were alone. Amadeo had his arm around the woman's shoulders. He was reading. He gave her kisses on the neck and on the ears, which seemed to him she liked. And every now and then, when she turned on the mouth, then he resumed reading. Perhaps this time he had found the ideal equilibrium. He could go on like this for 100 pages or so. But once again, it was she who wanted to change the situation. She began to stiffen almost to reject him and said, it's late. Let's go. I'm going to dress. This abrupt decision opened up quite different prospects. Amadeo was a bit disoriented, but he didn't stop to wait as the pros and cons. He had reached a climax in the book, and her dimly heard words, I'm going to dress, had in his mind immediately been translated into these others while she dresses. I'll have time to read a few pages without being disturbed. But she said, hold up the towel, please. Addressing him as two for perhaps the first time informally, rather than formally, as you have in romance, language is a difference. I don't want anyone to see me. But what does she do? Instead of dressing, she undresses behind the towel. She took off her top and her bottom, and there she was looking at him seductively. Since it has to happen, it might as well happen immediately. Amadeo thought, diving forward, book in hand, one finger between the pages. But what he read in that gaze, reproach, commiseration, dejection, as if to say, stupid, all right, we'll do it if it has to be done like this, but you don't understand a thing any more than the others. Or rather, what he did not read since he did not know how to read gazes, only words. But only vaguely sensed that, rousing him a moment of such transport toward the woman that embracing her and falling onto the mattress with her, he only slightly turned his head toward the book to make sure it didn't fall into the sea. Their love-making was a perfect match. It could perhaps have been extended a bit longer, but then hadn't everything been lightening fast in their encounter, dusk was falling, below the rocks opened out, sloping into a little harbor. Now she had gone down there, was halfway into the water. Come down, we'll have a last swim. Amadeo, biting his lips, was counting how many pages were left till the end. So what do you think? Were they ever going to see each other again? Has his vacation been ruined? I think it's been transformed, is my guess. I think that this is the beginning of the summer affair he was worried about. But how does it connect to reading? I think this is a funny story, definitely. I mean, how many times have you been sitting at the beach reading and wished instead you were conforming with someone in the air mattress or leaping into the ocean? Are we not all there reading? Because there's nothing better to do. Well, some people want to get away. But I think the pole is always there, and increasingly intensely sexualized at the beach. Definitely it's a strange place, predatory place, to be reading and trying to isolate, because you know you're not going to be left alone from distraction. And I think this story is making fun of that whole thing, as well as really examining the difference in knowledge between what you read and what you see and what you touch and what you experience. And the whole story of how he's distracted and what Amadeo finds in books, as opposed to what he's experiencing and seeing and touching and thinking about the world out there, it really is this whole examination of what it is that literature offers in connection to life. Does his reading, does his obsession with reading make it easier for him to have this sudden encounter with this woman? Does it make him a kind of more loose, less moral person? Does it make him able to understand the experience more? Or is he totally clueless, lost in this text-based world of reading everything? Is he trying to read the words as he's trying to read his encounter with this woman? It reminds me of the novelist David Lodge, British writing the satire of academic life, he describes as academic couple. And they're making love and they're described as if they're like pouring over each other like boxes of index cards. I think Calvino has a sort of lighter view of this reading here, because he is a reader. He is a writer. He really thinks literature has the sensual and seductive quality. And I would say, you've read the story, you've got some advice. Next time you go to the beach, take this book with you, this thick book, sit down on the beach, on a towel, try and read it, see if you concentrate, see what distractions come around, and try this at home, see what happens. The great novelist Salman Rushdie wrote that Calvino possesses the power of seeing into the deepest recesses of human minds. And then bringing their dreams to life, reading Calvino, you're constantly assailed by the notion that he is writing down what you have already known, except that you've never thought of it before. This is a highly unnerving experience, but fortunately, you're too busy laughing to go mad. In the adventure of Orita, Calvino writes a story about that which we all know, but have never thought about, that the attachment to the depiction of things is more interesting than the things themselves. There is an old American song entitled, I'd rather have a paper doll that I could call my own than a real, live girl. This could be the theme for the young voyeur, a medio, and for the rest of us as well, who would rather contemplate life than experience it. The adventures of Orita possesses great charm. The adventure here is, well, light, as Robert Towers puts it in the New York Review of Books article on Difficult Loves in 1984. As Towers writes, Difficult Loves reveals Calvino as a classically Italian writer, a writer that is for whom clarity of outline and brilliantly lighted surfaces seem preferable to the thickness of atmosphere and the weight of social psychological documentation. In comparing Calvino to Boccaccio and Pirandello, Towers places him in good company.