A review by tiborius
Gomorrah by Roberto Saviano

3.0

Roberto Saviano’s exposé on the Camorra clans was very much a mixed bag for me. Like most works of nonfiction, there are essentially two processes that lead to the final text. The process of research and the process of writing. Anyone who has read this book, or knows about this book, will agree that it is not the research that is lacking. Saviano has delved deep into the criminal underworld born in his home region, but as his book shows, is present everywhere on our planet. He engaged, interviewed and worked alongside insiders, and recorded everything. “I know and I can prove it”.
I say this, because if it was the research I was rating, it would be impossible to give anything but the maximum score. However, as a book, a text to read, it occasionally falls short.

Many parts of the book are absolutely enthralling. Especially when Saviano is writing from his own experience, the things he witnessed with his own eyes are gripping and turn Gomorrah into a page turner. Many other parts of the book, however, deal with larger concepts, an analysis of the economics of Europe and beyond that Camorra activity directly influences, and even shapes. Though a necessary aspect to shed light on to understand the unfathomable scale of their reach, some passages really do grind the narrative to a halt. Long lists of names of prominent criminals, that of course mean something to Saviano, but are often never mentioned again. The same goes for lists of towns where, for example, municipal governments have been abdicated for having ties to the Mafia, and lists of investigations by the authorities. Perhaps a more extensive use of footnotes could have solved this, but I also feel like the book is either too short or too long. Cutting some of these passages out would have led to a more streamlined introduction, while expanding them with a more extensive analysis of sources might have made it a definitive overview book of Camorra activity at the turn of the twenty-first century. As it stands, it is a bit of neither.

Saviano’s writing style can sometimes work well, but his similes and musings, to me, sometimes fall flat. They sometimes turn this gritty, no nonsense exposé into what seems like an attempt at modern literature. Some of this may be a result of the translation process into English, but often they seem to go somewhere, only to go off the rails a little too much. One of the worst offenders, to me, is the opening passage of the fifth chapter, Women:
‘It was as if I had an indefinable odor on me. Like the smell that permeates your clothing when you go to one of those fried-food places. When you leave, the smell gradually becomes less noticeable, blending with the poison of car exhaust, but it’s still there. You can take countless showers, soak for hours in heavily perfumed bath salts and oils, but you can’t get rid of it. And not because - like the sweat of a rapist - it has penetrated your flesh, but because you realize it was already inside you. As if it were emanating from a dormant gland that all of a sudden started secreting, activated more by a sensation of truth than of fear. As if something in your body were able to tell when you are staring at the truth, perceiving it with all your senses, with no mediation.’
Etcetera.

I would like to reiterate my respect for the lengths that Saviano went to document Camorra activity, risking his own life in order to expose the dark secrets all around us. For that he deserves acclaim, but as a narrative, Gomorrah does not hit all marks.