Very interesting novel. Although one would expect lots of action in the story told from the perspective of the armorer who creates unique and specialized weapons for the shadow world of assassins (think that guy from original Day of the Jackal) it is not a case here. Entire novel reads like an intimate conversation with this man who lives off producing unique weaponry wherever and whenever required. We are presented with his reflections on his profession, his experiences and his longing to live a normal life [although he is realist enough to know it is not easy (if at all) to achieve that goal].

Very interesting novel, might be slow to some but believe it is worth the effort. Author must truly adore the Italian landscapes and quiet small towns.

Recommended. ( )

One more point for the "Book is Better than the Movie" club! The movie in fact, called "The American" and starring one George Clooney, was quite a hair-pullingly dull dud. And let's look at how they got it wrong: gorgeous Italian village setting, tender scenes of peaches and brandy, simmering hints of intrigue and pursuit, an unlikely love story, and that wonderful title and they botched ALL that up. How did they get the movie so wrong? In it, from what I can dimly recall, Clooney moped around spending time caressing various gun parts. Nothing much happened. Then it ended.

But happily in the book, even though not that much happens, one doesn't regret spending time with Signor Farfalle (Mr. Butterfly) as our hero is called by the villagers. In fact the opening scenes hooked me something bad. I wanted to BE there sitting with old Father Benedetto under the peach trees every evening, discussing the meaning of history and drinking armagnac. I wanted to climb all the stairs to the octagonal loggia of the hero's house, watching the Italian night sky alive with fireflies, eating that rose-petal jam or gorging on wild honey. I wanted to mosey around the cafes drinking espresso, chatting with villagers who give me sweet nicknames.

That's where the desires end, though. For our man, you see, is 'very private' for a darn good reason. Slowly he recounts various reasons why we shouldn't actually know anything about him: not the name of the village, not his own name. The way he talks about guns and gun parts tells us plainly that we'd be wise not to ask questions. In fact at times I got the feeling I was reading an actual memoir of an expat in Italy, with liberal recounting of his past lives in other places.

Only towards the end of the book does the relationship with Clara become prominent. This young student moonlights as a lady of the night at the local bordello, and sure enough there's more to her than that. Alas the gentleman has hinted that things won't end well and they don't. Even if the final twist was a tad guessable, it still arrived satisfyingly. A tragedy occurs in the town center, and from it ripple multiple smaller tragedies.

Overall then, an intensely satisfying read for the Italian-village part of the story. Once before I loved a book just for a certain part of its setting, and no surprise that too was an Italian village: I'm thinking of Jesse Walters's Beautiful Ruins. Maybe it's finally time to head there after all; enough time has been spent mooning about and drooling over rural Italy in pictures, videos, movies, and books. ( )

Novel behind George Clooney movie, The American. Found the main character tiresome, especially all the nonsense about how he cannot divulge anything personal because then we could find him. C'mon this is fiction. For a much better depiction of simple life overseas for someone "in the game," read Peter Steiner. ( )

A little while ago I read The Industry of Souls by Martin Booth which was brilliant and so I was really looking forward to this book.

The problem I had was seeing George Clooney on the cover, after that, all I could see was George Clooney in a half assed, mediocre movie.

My apologies to both Martin Booth and George Clooney.

I enjoyed the style of the writing but it all got a bit tedious as well.

I read this under the title of The American

If you haven't read anything by Martin Booth then read The Industry Of Souls, it is light years better than this. ( )

I want to be kind, for the author's sake, but George Clooney in the film adaptation aside, this novel is one honking cliche of a male fantasy - and nothing even happens until the final few pages (I'd say last chapter, but breaking up such a dedicated stream of bollocks would be expecting too much).

Unnamed Narrator bangs on about not giving away too many clues about himself and his location, or he'd have to kill you, then adds 'I am not an assassin. I have never killed a man by pulling a trigger and taking a pay-off. I wonder if you thought I had. If this is so, then you are wrong'. Well, shit, why I am reading this very boring book about an ageing gunsmith, then? All he does is potter around the Italian countryside, where he is planning on 'retiring' to after one last job, drinking wine, talking to priests, and shagging young girls (he goes into copious details about his menage-a-trois with two local dolly birds who are regulars at a bordello but are really hard-working students, honest guv'nor). Like James Bond crossed with A Year In Provence, I kept expecting sudden violence, or at least a bit of drama, but no. Unnamed Narrator spouts sexist twaddle about a female assassin - ooh, such a big gun for a pretty girl with perfect breasts, etc - and gets stalked by someone out to do him in. I saw the twist coming a mile off, but even that failed to drive the plot. The film might be better, but I've just developed an allergic reaction to the story, so I can't be bothered finding out. Pure tosh. ( )