Sometimes a new novel is accompanied by so much advance praise it seems like a sure winner. So it can feel disconcerting to discover that after actually reading the book it hasn't worked for me. Jhumpa Lahiri states that Sandro Veronesi (winner of multiple literary prizes in his native Italy) is “long considered one of Italy's leading writers” and that “his latest novel 'The Hummingbird'... has already been hailed as a classic.” High praise for this book also comes from Ian McEwan, Howard Jacobson, Michael Cunningham, Richard Ford, Edward Carey and Edward Docx. It's described as a “reinvention of the family saga” and generally I really fall for multigenerational stories. So all the elements were in place for me to fall in love with this book, but I didn't. This naturally makes me wonder if I'm missing something or if my expectations were set too high. But generally I've found that no amount of overarching high praise will spoil my enjoyment of a book if it's actually good and “The Hummingbird” is a novel that I keep finding faults with the more I think about it.
It traces the story of Marco Carrera by moving backwards and forwards in time from the 1970s all the way through into the future in 2030. He's a doctor who specializes in eye and vision care. Though he's married and has a daughter, he's had to keep at arm's length the true love of his life Luisa who he maintains contact with over the years but, for complicated reasons, they can never be together. A crucial opening section recounts dialogue between Marco and Daniele Carradori, his wife Marina's psychoanalyst. Though their conversation breaks the trust a doctor should maintain with his patient they discuss Marina and continue to discuss her in the years following after Marco and Marina divorce. It made me really uncomfortable that Marina is described as suffering from severe mental health issues, yet we get little about her story beyond Daniele dismissively stating years later that he always knew she was a “lost cause”. Of course, Marina might have caused a lot of destruction and pain for those around her but the narrative doesn't grant us access to her position. It feels like the reader should only sympathise with Marco and the fact that life has trapped him in a situation where he can't be with the woman he truly loves.
Marco's life is beset by several tragedies which makes it feel like he's a victim of fate who persists despite the chaos swirling around him. The novel raises questions about the amount of free will we have to decide our own destinies. Although there is personal tragedy in his life, Marco has an unparalleled lucky streak as a frequent gambler who, against all odds, always comes out ahead. The eternal question of determination as opposed to the influence of human will is certainly a compelling one especially when looking at the course of a life over great swaths of time, but the way it's presented in this story feels too manufactured and forced. The novel is told in fragments of different forms: letters, dialogue and snapshots of particular periods that leave a number of gaps for the reader to imaginatively fill in. That's an interesting structure but it feels like it's built to arouse the maximum amount of sympathy for Marco at the expense of all the other characters. Additionally, certain dramatic scenes in the novel feel directly taken from films such as 'Force Mejeure' and 'Final Destination' as a way of further demonstrating the question of fate vs free will. This felt more hackneyed than meaningful to me.
Finally, Marco's granddaughter Miraijin is presented as a great beacon of hope for the future who he laboriously invests with attributes which will allow her to triumph over traditional sexist and racist notions. He pompously claims “this creature is my gift to the world.” These idealized notions seem very naïve and the positive note the author seems to be reaching for in the final section is subsumed by the sense this is really just an extended hymn to the “beloved” figure of Marco. Every character in the novel we've been prevented from getting to know in any meaningful sense because of the way the story is structured is paraded up to his bed during Marco's final hour to pay tribute to him. Given I didn't feel endeared to Marco, I didn't shed a tear. I'm only emphasizing my reaction to the end of this book because Edward Docx's review makes a point to “commend and celebrate The Hummingbird's last scene, in which Veronesi achieves something transcendent”. If you feel attached to Marco and Veronesi's method of storytelling which funnels all empathy exclusively towards this main character the book's conclusion will probably feel poignant, but all it made me do was sigh with relief that it was over.
