Calvino Writes Like He Knows He’s Better Than You (And He’s Right)

The first time I cracked open If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler, I thought, this isn’t a book; this is a loaded gun aimed at my head. It was two a.m., my fridge was empty except for half a lemon and a warm beer, and I was sitting in the glow of a desk lamp that flickered like it was about to die.

Calvino wasn’t telling a story—he was messing with my head. Every line felt like a private joke, except I wasn’t in on it. It was a riddle inside a labyrinth inside a dream. And just when I thought I had it figured out, he’d yank the floor out from under me.

Most writers want you to like them. They’re like that guy at the bar buying you drinks, trying too hard.

Calvino doesn’t give a damn. He writes like a man who knows he’s better than you—sharper, smarter, a thousand moves ahead. And here’s the worst part: he’s right.

A Night I Can’t Shake

I was 24, broke, and living in a one-room apartment that smelled like loserdom and regret. Someone—an ex, a professor, who knows—had shoved Invisible Cities into my hands and said, “You’ll like this. It’s deep.”

So there I was, cross-legged on the floor, reading about Marco Polo describing imaginary cities to Kublai Khan. Only, they weren’t cities. They were memories. Or maybe desires. Or maybe nothing at all.

Halfway through, I put the book down and stared at the cracked plaster on the ceiling. I thought about all the cities I’d never visit, all the lives I’d never live. And then I started laughing. Not the good kind. The kind that feels like a slow leak in a cheap tire.

A city isn’t a place, not really. It’s just a damn idea, some bullshit your mind cooks up to fill the empty space between your ears.

Calvino knew it, and somewhere deep down I knew it too. All those cities I built in my head—places where I’d finally get everything I wanted, where the sun would always be shining and I’d be rich and maybe even loved—were nothing more than sandcastles.

Pretty little dreams that looked good on paper, but as soon as the tide came in, they were gone, washed away like a bad hangover.

I’d picture myself in Paris, sitting at some café like an intellectual brah in a weird suit, puffing on cigarettes, scribbling genius into a notebook while the world whispered about how brilliant I was.

Maybe I’d be in Tokyo, lost in a crowd of neon lights and late-night ramen, the city buzzing around me like I was part of something bigger.

Or maybe I was in London, just me and the skyline, my typewriter hammering out a novel while the world waited for me to be somebody.

Every city promised the same damn thing—escape, redemption, the sweet smell of success—but the whole thing was a scam, a hustle.

You think the city will save you, that changing your address will fix what’s broken inside you.

But it’s all smoke and mirrors. The curtains always close, and those cities vanish. It doesn’t matter if you’re in Paris or a shack in the desert—nothing’s going to change.

The same emptiness follows you around like a shadow. It’s a bad joke, and you’re the punchline.

The real city, the one you’re running from, it’s here. Inside. And no matter how many new streets you walk down, you’ll always end up back at the same damn intersection.

The Traps

Calvino writes like he’s the architect of some impossible puzzle.

His books aren’t stories—they’re contraptions. Beautiful, intricate, maddening contraptions.

What You ExpectWhat Calvino Gives You
A straightforward plotA story that loops back on itself like a snake eating its tail.
Relatable charactersCharacters who are mirrors, reflecting your own confusion.
An ending that ties things togetherAn ending that makes you question why you even wanted closure.

Take Cosmicomics. It’s about the universe before and after the Big Bang.

Sounds simple enough, right? Wrong. Calvino turns it into a love story, a comedy, a tragedy, and a cosmic prank all at once.

You’re laughing on one page and contemplating the void on the next.

Or If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler. It’s a novel about reading a novel that you never get to finish.

Every chapter is a new beginning, a new story that never resolves. It’s like walking into a house of doors, only to find every door leads to another house.

Explaining Calvino Over Drinks

If someone asked me to explain Calvino, I’d buy them a whiskey and say this:

“Imagine life is a carnival. Most writers are selling popcorn, maybe running the Tilt-A-Whirl. Not Calvino. He’s the guy running the hall of mirrors. You step inside, and suddenly nothing makes sense. Your reflection is stretched, distorted, multiplied. You can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.

“That’s Calvino,” I’d say, swirling my glass. “He’s not here to comfort you. He’s here to show you how absurd everything is—and maybe, if you’re lucky, how beautiful that absurdity can be.”

The Critics and the Quitters

Not everyone likes Calvino. Some people hate him. They say he’s pretentious, too clever by half, all style and no soul.

CriticComplaint
The Hemingway Types“Too many words. Just tell the damn story.”
The Literalists“What’s the point of a novel that doesn’t even have an ending?”
The Cynics“It’s all a gimmick. A literary parlor trick.”

But here’s the thing: Calvino isn’t writing for everyone.

He’s not here to feed you a moral or tie things up in a neat little bow.

He’s writing for the ones who can stomach a little confusion, a little discomfort.

The ones who know life doesn’t come with an instruction manual.

Photo by Shakib Uzzaman on Unsplash

Life in the Inferno

One line from Invisible Cities has stuck with me for years:

“The inferno of the living is not something that will be; if there is one, it is what already is here. The inferno where we live every day, that we form by being together.”

Calvino doesn’t shy away from the fact that life is messy, meaningless, an inferno of our own making.

But he doesn’t wallow in it, either. He looks for the sparks of light in the darkness—the fleeting moments of beauty, connection, and wonder.

That’s the paradox of Calvino: he’s a romantic and a nihilist, a dreamer and a skeptic. He knows the maze is pointless, but he still marvels at its design.

Why It Matters

Reading Calvino is an act of surrender. You don’t read him to get it.

You read him to feel it—to lose yourself in the questions, the contradictions, the chaos.

And maybe that’s the point. Life doesn’t come with answers. It’s just a series of unfinished stories, broken cities, and cosmic jokes.

But if you’re lucky, you’ll find a moment of clarity—a fleeting glimpse of something bigger, something beautiful.

A Final Thought (in Verse, Because Why Not?)

The pages turn, the story bends,
No beginnings, no clear ends.
Through mazes vast, through endless night,
We search for meaning, chase the light.

Calvino knew the secret game:
We’re all just mirrors, frames in frames.
And though the journey’s strange, unclear,
It’s all we’ve got—so persevere.

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