The End by Salvatore Scibona
Salvatore Scibona is an extraordinary writer. His first book, The End, was nominated this year for The National Book award, and I’d say there is a very good chance he would have won it had the staggeringly good trilogy by Matthiesson not been allowed in the race. What’s even more impressive, I suspect this author will only get better. Scibona is a crafter of sentences in the DeLillo tradition–and in fact his dialogue, at times, feels like that of the Don. His love of language comes through both in form and content, but he’s no pedantic formalist. His craft is still the telling of tales, and he does it splendidly.
The End is an immigrant tale, of sorts, but like any good book it transcends the moldy stereotypes. Scibona’s Italian-Americans reside in Cleveland, and though the city isn’t actually identified until later in the book, one is led to feel as if one spent the early part of the century in the neighborhood surrounding Elephant Creek. As present as the city itself is, however, one reads this book for the people. One character in particular, Constanza Marini, is so finely wrought that she becomes ones own neighbor. Costanza, who is an old widow for most of the novel, is a whip-smart pragmatist who provides that axis around which the book’s events revolve. And without spoiling, the book does have events–it has a sort of mystery at its core that had me combing back through earlier pages looking for clues.
There are not many debut novels that i plan to reread. The End is one of them. Before I do, I’m going to search out some of Scibona’s short stories–this is a writer to follow.
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