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Title: Oy, the number of logs you could saw with this book....
Review: However novel (ha, ha) the ideas herein; however vast the breadth (or girth) of Calvino's erudition; however numerous the styles (to their varying degress of success) of literary "satire" (if it can indeed be called that), this just made my eyes hurt. Not to be daunted by a little book, I eked my way through it, and met with the glorious reward of a splitting headache... I've read most of Calvino, enjoyed most of it thoroughly (esp. Baron o' the Trees and Invisible Cities), but Winter's Night reminded me most of the high you get after snorting tepid oatmeal: (a) lumpily suffocating and (b) thoroughly unsatisfying (DISCLAIMER: don't try this at home or without proper adult supervision, kiddies). I'll take a tall postModernist blonde over this malarkey-in-translation any day of the week.
