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bibliocyclist's review against another edition
3.0
Do you find that you can say more in writing than you ever could in speaking, yet still never enough? Do you detect an empty chasm between yourself and others? Do you suspect that the more you know the closer you come to understanding nothing? If so, check out Numbers in the Dark, a diverse and diverting collection of short stories written by Italo Calvino between 1943 and 1984. Immerse yourself in Calvino’s strange and familiar worlds to meet the “wind man, who needs suddenly to shout and bite the air when he’s speaking,” interview the Neanderthal who has everything one could ever want and has done everything one could ever do, and consider that all the author’s words and deeds and yours and ours and “everything space and time contains is no more than that little that was generated from nothingness, the little that is that might very well not be, or be even smaller.”
***
Yet, even now, every time (often) that I find I don’t understand something, then, instinctively, I’m filled with the hope that perhaps this will be my moment again, perhaps once again I shall understand nothing, I shall grasp that other knowledge, found and lost in an instant.
However hard I tried to put words between myself and the world, I couldn’t find any that were suitable to clothe things anew.
I’m like that, a wind man, who needs friction and headway when he’s walking, needs suddenly to shout and bite the air when he’s speaking. When the wind lifts in town, spreading from suburb to suburb in tongues of colourless flame, the town opens up before me like a book, it’s as though I could recognize everybody I see, I feel like yelling, “Hey there!” to the girls, the cyclists, like shouting out what I’m thinking, waving my hands.
I can’t tell you any stories because I’ve got this gap. There’s an empty chasm between me and everybody else. I wave my arms about inside it but I can’t get a hold of anything, I shout into it but no one hears: it’s total emptiness.
I’ll never manage to say anything, speaking. That’s why I write.
The head commands so long as it’s attached to the neck.
I make a sign for her to shush and point down with my hand in the air as though to warn her that the spell could break any second, then I make a circular gesture as if to say it’s all the same, and what I mean is that through me a black Pluto is reaching up from the underworld to carry her off, through her, a blazing Persephone, because that’s how the ruthless devourer of living substances, the Earth, starts her cycle over again.
I don’t know what you think you have that I don’t have, I had everything I wanted, everything that was done afterwards, I’d already done, everything that was said and thought and meant was already there in what I said and thought and meant, all complication of complication was already there, I only have to pick up this stone with my thumb and the other four fingers that fold over it, and everything’s already there.
Day rolls towards sunset. Summer rots in muddy autumn. Thus every day, every summer.
In some unidentifiable point of circuitry my call has lost its way.
Everything space and time contains is no more than that little that was generated from nothingness, the little that is that might very well not be, or be even smaller.
***
Yet, even now, every time (often) that I find I don’t understand something, then, instinctively, I’m filled with the hope that perhaps this will be my moment again, perhaps once again I shall understand nothing, I shall grasp that other knowledge, found and lost in an instant.
However hard I tried to put words between myself and the world, I couldn’t find any that were suitable to clothe things anew.
I’m like that, a wind man, who needs friction and headway when he’s walking, needs suddenly to shout and bite the air when he’s speaking. When the wind lifts in town, spreading from suburb to suburb in tongues of colourless flame, the town opens up before me like a book, it’s as though I could recognize everybody I see, I feel like yelling, “Hey there!” to the girls, the cyclists, like shouting out what I’m thinking, waving my hands.
I can’t tell you any stories because I’ve got this gap. There’s an empty chasm between me and everybody else. I wave my arms about inside it but I can’t get a hold of anything, I shout into it but no one hears: it’s total emptiness.
I’ll never manage to say anything, speaking. That’s why I write.
The head commands so long as it’s attached to the neck.
I make a sign for her to shush and point down with my hand in the air as though to warn her that the spell could break any second, then I make a circular gesture as if to say it’s all the same, and what I mean is that through me a black Pluto is reaching up from the underworld to carry her off, through her, a blazing Persephone, because that’s how the ruthless devourer of living substances, the Earth, starts her cycle over again.
I don’t know what you think you have that I don’t have, I had everything I wanted, everything that was done afterwards, I’d already done, everything that was said and thought and meant was already there in what I said and thought and meant, all complication of complication was already there, I only have to pick up this stone with my thumb and the other four fingers that fold over it, and everything’s already there.
Day rolls towards sunset. Summer rots in muddy autumn. Thus every day, every summer.
In some unidentifiable point of circuitry my call has lost its way.
Everything space and time contains is no more than that little that was generated from nothingness, the little that is that might very well not be, or be even smaller.
lauraschl's review against another edition
4.0
This collection of short stories highlights the breadth of Calvino’s talent. Comic, satirical, philosophical, cosmological, and mythological short stories and screenplays show Calvino’s development as a writer. There’s some unevenness, which is not unexpected. Would recommend reading other better-known works by Calvino before reading his short stories.
arachne_reads's review against another edition
5.0
I admit to being less impressed with Calvino's juvenilia, I am still haunted by certain pieces: of the "interviews, ""Montezuma," and "Henry Ford;" of the other fictions, "Beheading the Heads." These are meal-worthy notions. They are sound enough to carry the collection. And it isn't to say that I didn't enjoy the early work as well. It simply doesn't have the same force. But this is an expected thing.
stephmostav's review against another edition
4.0
Já entendi porque minha lista de desejados cresce assustadoramente rápido. É que se eu gosto muito de uns três, quatro livros de um autor (gosto MESMO), já quero logo a obra completa. Foi assim com todos os meus favoritos: Machado, Kundera, Clarice, Dostoievski, Kafka, Tolstoi e não poderia deixar de ser o Calvino também. Putz, os contos desse cara são fantásticos. Já quero a obra completa do indivíduo na minha estante. E por favor, qualquer entidade divina, que eu não me apaixone ainda mais pelo Saramago porque não dá pra bancar todos aqueles livros caros.
eunrose's review against another edition
5.0
Shockingly relevant, for a book of midcentury stories by an Italian communist. It still has interesting, only lightly dated, things to say about work, automation, politics, society and love. It's also very science fictional, even in the stories that aren't explicitly sci-fi. This is a mostly lost treasure that deserves to be rediscovered.
cynicalworm's review
3.0
Three and a half years later I borrowed this book once again from the library. The stories that I remembered fondly were still wonderful. There really are some magnificent stories and beautiful writing in this collection but there are still a fair number of stories that drag and didn't appeal to me.
Solidarity was my favorite, such a brilliant and simple premise.
Also of note: The Black Sheep, A General in the Library, Numbers in the Dark, Beheading the Heads, The Burning of the Abominable House, Before You Say 'Hello'
Solidarity was my favorite, such a brilliant and simple premise.
Also of note: The Black Sheep, A General in the Library, Numbers in the Dark, Beheading the Heads, The Burning of the Abominable House, Before You Say 'Hello'
wskent's review
3.0
A book about men by a man. Not hard to imagine Bolano easing into one of his books. Calvino has an eye for crafting intricate vignettes, rich in scenery and the tiniest details. If you can savor those over the stubborn perspective, there are some great stories in this volume including: The Man Who Shouted Teresa, World Memory, Beheading the Heads, Before You Say 'Hello,' and Henry Ford.
steve_t's review
3.0
Has some really fun stories. I particularly enjoyed Good for Nothing (minus the ending) and The Burning of the Abominable House. The stories had that Calvino charm of creativity and fun. This collection didn't feel as strong as some of his other work, but his originality is always a pleasure to read and it brought me happiness.
stephmostav's review
4.0
Já entendi porque minha lista de desejados cresce assustadoramente rápido. É que se eu gosto muito de uns três, quatro livros de um autor (gosto MESMO), já quero logo a obra completa. Foi assim com todos os meus favoritos: Machado, Kundera, Clarice, Dostoievski, Kafka, Tolstoi e não poderia deixar de ser o Calvino também. Putz, os contos desse cara são fantásticos. Já quero a obra completa do indivíduo na minha estante. E por favor, qualquer entidade divina, que eu não me apaixone ainda mais pelo Saramago porque não dá pra bancar todos aqueles livros caros.
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