Italo Calvino was born in Cuba and grew up in Italy. He was a journalist and writer of short stories and novels. His best known works include the Our Ancestors trilogy (1952-1959), the Cosmicomics collection of short stories (1965), and the novels Invisible Cities (1972) and If On a Winter's Night a Traveler (1979).
His style is not easy to classify; much of his writing has an air reminiscent to that of fantastical fairy tales (Our Ancestors, Cosmicomics), although sometimes his writing is more "realistic" and in the scenic mode of observation (Difficult Loves, for example). Some of his writing has been called postmodern, reflecting on literature and the act of reading, while some has been labeled magical realist, others fables, others simply "modern". He wrote: "My working method has more often than not involved the subtraction of weight. I have tried to remove weight, sometimes from people, sometimes from heavenly bodies, sometimes from cities; above all I have tried to remove weight from the structure of stories and from language."
I hated this collection. Admittedly, my opinion softened slightly after learning a little about the author and his overall journey, but in all honesty, I found it bloviated, unnecessarily verbose: an exercise in literary and verbal masturbation.
That the author was incredibly intelligent and well educated in life and in the humanities I have no doubt, but so much of the text traced and retraced trivialities and assertions or imagined potentialities of any given circumstance conceivably connected with the theme being explored, that the narratives of each 'story' became hard to follow, and even harder to enjoy.
Perhaps that was the point: experimental 'non-linear' narration. Well, if it was, it drained any sense of value from the work, in my opinion, and created a collection of dense, self-indulgent tedium, with the exception of maybe two segments that seemed only slightly less like drudgery.
In conclusion, there were a couple of almost redeeming portions, but they were nearly drowned by the rest. Essentially, a pile of gristle and bone hiding a scarcity of meat.
One can only hope that not all of Mr. Calvino's works were like this.