Review of a short story from the July 3, 2017 issue of The New Yorker... As an American of Italian descent, and a self-proclaimed man of letters, I am ashamed to admit that this is the very first thing I've ever read by Italo Calvino, an Italian writer who, at the time of his death in 1985 (so I just learned), was the most translated Italian contemporary writer. When I read a story like this one -- short, beautiful, ethereal, almost magical, and totally lacking in any kind of plot -- it makes me reflect very seriously on my own writing, in a way that would take pages and pages to properly unfold. So I won't get into it right now, but... In this story, Italo Calvino basically takes us for an hour's trip on the ski slopes of some region in northern Italy where, through the eyes of a pack of younger teenage boys, then narrowed down to one in particular, we watch a delightful vision of a young woman skiing alongside them. She remains at a distant remove until one of the
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