“FRIDAY RE-VERSO”
“They had expectations towards the other person, I only had expectations towards myself.”
This book cannot be left unmentioned. To readers, non-readers, people who happen to pass by. In the Italian literary scene, it’s a mine that explodes, sparing no one.
Without anything that could even remotely be mistaken for hypocrisy, without discounts, without winks. To discuss it, we must begin with the style: as another author—who is, first and foremost, a careful reader—noted, Scomazzon has found a “high note,” very high, we would say, and doesn’t leave it, not even for a single line. Every single sentence is caustic, brilliant, polished to the point of being cutting. Every. Single. Sentence. And one cannot think that such intelligence is artificial, simulated; it’s impossible not to attribute it to the author as well: that would be an untenable invention. So in the meantime, read it, even if only to read something well-written.
In 2023, Scomazzon won the Bagutta Opera Prima Award with his anti-memoir (built on the absence of memories) “Fear Wounds Like a Rusty Knife.” Today, he has chosen to break away from autobiographical writing and dive into the world of fiction, a dive that earns him an A+. The character he creates, Alice, is unforgettable.
She is a young woman grappling with a life that is collapsing, and in this collapse, alcohol plays a key role. But… What one might expect from this hint of a plot is a wrenching internal struggle, punctuated by feelings of guilt, rumination, accusations mixed with justifications.
None of this: the voice reporting the events is a compact block constructed around a wound only briefly mentioned, in three words, and which remains there, like a parenthesis, throughout the book. It seems like no one around her can decipher it, see that parenthesis, remember that it’s real. No one seems to want to dig behind or beneath the symptom, so why should she? When alcohol and benzodiazepines allow you to stay on the social track in a semi-dignified equilibrium, who makes you try to close those degrees of separation from others, from life, from yourself?
Distance, detachment (paradoxically always as lucid as a sniper) are the only true defense, first and foremost from the ghost of victimhood. Never. He’s the Titanic’s conductor. He doesn’t really seek help, he doesn’t accept it when it’s offered, he doesn’t want it. He simply looks around, criticizes, and through his gaze we glimpse a depressing panorama, one that has nothing to envy of his artificial calm, more sincere than those who pretend to have their feet on this damned earth.
We have no basis for blaming her; we’re just more accustomed to treating ourselves to pointlessly benevolent glances, to seeking uplifting messages from the universe. What we can do is tip our hats to such merciless consistency. Self-destructive or self-preserving? We’re a useless and pedantic jury, a bit ridiculous, and Scomazzon seems to suggest we reprogram our priorities, learning to laugh at ourselves before pitying anyone else.
“Pessimists without irony are the most boring people in the world, and I refuse to associate with people even more boring than enthusiasts.” Of all the dangers, dear Giulia-Alice, this one seems to have been completely averted.
Written by Delis
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Giulia Scomazzon, 8.6 gradi di separazione, Nottetempo, Milano, 2025