Italian Days

by Barbara Grizzuti Harrison

Release Date: October, 1998

Edition: Paperback

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A dream of a travel memoir

Preparing for a trip to Italy last fall I purchased a number of books on the country -- mostly personal travelogues, essays, historical tomes. It was quite accidental that I picked up "Italian Days" and due to its sheer weight I can only surmise that my instincts told me to take the book home. Six months later I am back from Italy and just now reading Harrison's incredibly visual book -- it is like looking through my photographs and rereading my own journal. Harrison is the most sensual of writers approaching her subject with a woman's sensibility. The ruins of the Forum get no more attention than the flavors of gelatto near the Pantheon or rush of navigating the treacherous Roman streets. It is all true to the experience of Italy.

I wonder how such a book could be out of print and what a disservice that is to readers. I treasure my copy even more and can only recommend that readers grab Harrison's latest "An Accidental Autobiography" while they can -- her writing is a necessary addition to anyone's library.

Let the sun set on these "days."

This book came very highly recommended, and I have to admit, I was disappointed. I found it self-absorbed and opaque, inscrutable. Grizzuti Harrison's Italy sounds like a place I would never want to go -- indeed, nothing like the place I've been to -- full of peevish storekeepers, American-hating townspeople, predatory men. I found nothing to love about the Italy depicted in this book and couldn't imagine why the author would subject herself to further months spent there.

The writing is very strange. The sentence structure loops archaically, and the asides that are often inserted into the sentences not only make the reading more difficult, but do nothing to enlighten the reader.

I also took issue with the book's tone and diction. Grizzuti Harrison spends pages and pages on high-flown quotations -- so many that it seems like she's padding her book because she has no thoughts of her own -- yet brings the reader crashing down from these utterances with a few strangely-placed "f-words."

I didn't understand this book. I prefer my own memories of Italy to this author's.