Every time I stroll through the Intellectual Insight department at a bookstore, it makes me invariably reminisce about the renowned Italian author and publisher, Roberto Calasso. Calasso was a celebrated writer, known for his multifaceted non-fiction works, exploring contemporary society’s mythical underpinnings. As the owner and lynchpin of the Milan-based Adelphi Edizioni publishing house, he towered over Italian literature, appearing as an exceedingly intellectual monarch.
During the last few years of his life, I became acquainted with Calasso, who showed interest in my writings. The publishing house, Adelphi, even published my first translated book. Despite several face-to-face encounters, I revered him to a point of being merely cordial owing to his immense intellect and influence.
Before his demise a couple of years ago, Calasso was in Dublin for a public interview. The day before the event, we took a leisurely stroll around the city and made a pitstop at ‘Hodges Figgis’, so he could purchase a book he had been seeking. In the window display, I spotted his recently launched book ‘The Unnameable Present’. With delight, he asked where in this mammoth of a bookstore, can his book be found. I found myself in a quandary, given his infamous penchant for topics that challenge the norms of classification, making his works feel out of place irrespective of the spot it occupied in the bookstore. (He once told me that his narrative-rich, intellectually intricate book ‘Tiepolo Pink’ about Venetian artist Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, famed for his Rococo ceiling murals, was haphazardly slotted under Interior Decor by Amazon.)
Tentatively, I suggested, “I’ve observed my book in the Intellectual Insight section, you might possibly locate yours there.”
“Intellectual Insight!” he queried. “What does Intellectual Insight signify?”
I educated him about this broad category utilised by book vendors in the English speaking realm, designed to house non-fiction books which were grounded on solid, eye-catching ideas and assaying to pull in a wide audience. This sort of books often bordered between business, self-improvement, pop-psychology, and popular history. The narratives in the books weren’t typically intricate or profound, but served primarily as resources for information and ideas, the likes of which could be easily digested through a brief podcast chat featuring the author.
Calasso was renowned for his solemn demeanour, yet he appeared to relish the mysterious delight stemming from the discovery of himself being categorised within this semi-genre, whether it be simply for sorting purposes.
Later in the evening over a cup of tea at his hotel, when there was a pause in our discourse – he had been advising me on how to approach my subsequent book, guidance that I felt privileged to receive, yet tacitly knew I wouldn’t heed – he looked at me curiously over his teacup. “Mark,” he articulated. “Would you refresh my memory? What was that phrase you mentioned, about the books?”
“Smart Thinking,” was my response.
He echoed it with a bewildered fascination, emphasising the phrase in his Fundamenta-inspired accent. “Smart… Thinking.”
The memory of Roberto Calasso uttering those words resonates with me to this day. Specifically, whenever I visit Instagram and come across a promotional advertisement for an internet service known as Blinkist. Blinkist simplifies non-fiction works, reducing them into a concentrated, informative pulp which is then dispatched to its subscribers via a 15-minute audio and text tutorial.
It is somewhat analogous to a literary form of those nutritional drinks aimed at individuals who reckon they lack the time for a midday meal.
Rosa Lister, a few years ago, humorously yet insightfully critiqued Blinkist in an essay, dubbing it a byproduct of a society obsessively concerned with the idea of productivity. “Every text”, she penned, “is scrutinised for its viable outcomes, even when those outcomes should compel the reader to immediately break their laptop in half, as is the case with the summarisation of Jenny Odell’s ‘How to Do Nothing.’” (Odell’s book, for those who haven’t read its summarisation on Blinkist, is a prominent contemporary condemnation of the very culture of productivity.)
In that frame of mind, Blinkist exemplifies an extreme oversimplification of the entire Smart Thinking semi-genre, in which a book is viewed as a tool for conveying information and the relayed information is used to increase one’s value in an economy focused on knowledge acquisition and skill enhancement.
Undeniably, compelling books cannot be simplified into digestible bites, just like they can’t be produced by software; akin to profound conversations, they persist in being unresolved and entirely impossible to distil into a summary.
An advert for a service proposes the opportunity to “Decipher the brilliance within ChatGPT” through analysing OpenAI CEO, Sam Altman’s “Top 9 Life Transforming Reads.” While it’s hard to accept the shaky notion that Altman is a genius, the idea of deconstructing someone’s mind through the books they’ve been affected by, is truly peculiar. However, it uncovers something essential about reading as a tool — a method of achieving or ‘deciphering’ one’s own potential.
While I’m not a rigid aesthete advocating for reading to be entirely frivolous, it’s true that the reason I read so profusely, and perhaps others who absorb literature as well, is the unformed hope that the upcoming narrative could, even in the smallest way, alter my existence. Yet, the joy from reading also emanates from its inherent value: witnessing intricate thoughts of a writer forming and adapting on paper, and following their thought process, often leading us to unexplored territories.
Perusing a Blinkist synopsis in comparison to actual reading is like generating text on ChatGPT is to genuine writing. The greatest books, those that transform lives, cannot be minimised into insights just like they can’t be generated by software, instead, akin to profound conversations, they persist being unresolved, completely impossible to distil into a summary.
When I discovered that my first book was available in a condensed form for Blinkist subscribers, I was uncertain about how insulted I should be. I’d dislike the thought of my work being simmered down to a set of operational perceptions, but on the other hand, I found a ‘summary of significant concepts’ available for Ulysses to be equally astonishing. (Finnegans Wake is yet to be deciphered by Blinkist.)
From what I can discern, Calasso has successfully sidestepped the plight of being summarised. I suspect that being ignored by Blinkist wouldn’t displease him, yet I feel a tad melancholic that I’ll never get the chance to inform him of its presence.