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Antonio Tabucchi is one of Italy's most acclaimed contemporary writers. Born in Pisa in 1943, Tabucchi is the author of twenty novels and short story collections, nine of which have been translated into English, together with numerous essays and plays. Twice shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize, he has been awarded many prestigious prizes, including the Prix Medicis etranger for Indian Nocturne and the Premio Campiello, the Premio Viareggio and the Aristeion Prize for Pereira Maintains. Emeritus professor at the University of Siena, he has taught at Bard College in New York, the Ecole de Hautes Etudes and the College de France in Paris, and currently divides his time between Paris and Lisbon.
Author photo © Augusto Brazio
An extraordinary novel from one of Italy's most acclaimed contemporary writers. It's a literary page turner, skilfully written with immense storytelling power that draws you into the story which itself is both sad and uplifting. It's the sort of book that will live in your memory long after you've turned the final page. This edition has an introduction by Mohsin Hamid, author of The Reluctant Fundamentalist, explaining why this is his favourite book. Here's a taster from Mohsin: 'A masterpiece of compression. A political history of 1930s Portugal, a love story between a man and his dead wife, a gloriously successful formal experiment, and an irresistible thriller - and it can be read with enormous pleasure in a single afternoon.' - Mohsin Hamid
THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER INTRODUCED BY MOHSIN HAMID 'The most impressive novel I've read for years' PHILIP PULLMAN 'Stunning' DIANA ATHILL In the sweltering summer of 1938, with Lisbon in the grip of Portugal's fascist dictatorship, out of nowhere a young man arrives on an elderly widower's doorstep. Lonely and overweight, Dr Pereira lives a quiet, monotonous existence. But when the charismatic Monteiro Rossi bursts into his life, everything changes. Seeing in him the son he never had, Pereira strikes up an unlikely alliance that will result in his political awakening and a devastating act of rebellion. This is his testimony.
'A lot of people lose their way in India . . . it's a country specially made for that.' Amid the backstreets, brothels and faded hotels of Bombay, Madras and the old Portuguese port of Goa, a man searches for his lost friend. Xavier has been missing for a year, and the only clues to his disappearance lie with an overworked doctor, a young prostitute and the leader of a strange religious order. Dreamlike, elusive and profoundly disquieting, Indian Nocturne calls into question the very nature of identity.
A City Lights / Italian Voices Book Elaborately imagined...mini-catalog of great artists' dreams and the author's interpretation of the last three days in the life of Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa. Tabucchi's rich language and his magical-realist charm tinge the volume with a visionary glow. -Publishers Weekly A lovely little book that keeps ringing in your head long after you've finished it. -Kirkus Chapter One DREAM OF DAEDALUS, ARCHITECT AND AVIATOR One night, thousands of years ago, at a time impossible to calculate exactly, Daedalus, architect and aviator, had a dream. He dreamed that he was deep inside an immense palace and he was going through a corridor. The corridor opened into another corridor and Daedalus, tired and confused, walked along it, leaning on the walls. When he had come to the end, the corridor opened into a small octagonal room, from which eight corridors branched out. Daedalus began to feel short of breath and a need for fresh air. He entered one corridor, but it ended against a wall. He went into another, but it too ended against a wall. Seven times Daedalus made an attempt until, on the eighth attempt, he entered a very long corridor that, after a series of curves and corners, led out into another corridor. Daedalus then sat down on a marble step and began to reflect. On the corridor walls were flaming torches that illuminated frescoes blue with birds and flowers. I'm the only one who could know how to get out of here, Daedalus said to himself, and I don't remember. He took off his sandals and began to walk barefoot on the green marble floor. To console himself, he began to sing an ancient dirge he had learned from an old servant who had rocked his infant cradle. The arcades of the long corridor carried his voice back to him ten times over. I'm the only one who could know how to get out of here, said Daedalus, and I don't remember. At that moment, he came out into a wide, circular room frescoed with absurd landscapes. He remembered that room but he couldn't remember why he remembered it. There were seats covered with luxurious fabrics and, in the middle of the room, a large bed. On the edge of the bed was seated