Tommaso Landolfi was a master of the insulting anticlimax, and usually managed to undermine the seriousness of his topics with an almost vaudevillian indifference: aan ocean of cockroaches, Gogol's relationship with a blow-up doll, a woman's hirsute nipple

Tommaso Landolfi, Gogols Wife and Other Stories, New Directions, 1989.

"What we know about Tommaso Landolfi would barely fill the pages of a hotel-lobby brochure. Briefly, he was: (a) born in Pico, Italy, in 1908 and died in Rome in 1979; (b) addicted to gambling, and a fastidious dandy; (c) compulsively protective of his own obscurity. Landolfi's stories featured grotesque subjects: an ocean of cockroaches, Gogol's relationship with a blow-up doll, a woman's hirsute nipple. He also ferociously mocked critics, literary prizes (of which he was often a recipient), and his own readers. It would not be difficult to confuse his life and fiction with a first-rate Borges plot.
But Landolfi was also a lexicographic genius, beneath whose casually sadistic storytelling lies a lustful fascination with words and the dilemmas they encourage. As it was, he thought that the demotic language proper to his era's literary establishment had been inundated by the abstruse jargon of theory, dehumanizing communication itself. As Italo Calvino noted, he was aware of the "arbitrariness of linguistic symbols, and most importantly, the nonarbitrariness of language as a system." Addicted to the roulette wheel, Landolfi saw creativity as a precise, though not more profound, form of gambling. He once mandated that a printer's error go uncorrected in one of his dialogues, even though the slip made the piece incomprehensible.
In "Dialogue on the Greater Harmonies," published in 1937, an unsettled student and poet, Y., tells the narrator how he was taught Persian by an English sea captain. After studying the language and composing three poems in it, Y. realizes he's been conned: the "Persian" he has painstakingly learned is nothing but an imaginary language. Worse still, when confronted, the sailor cannot remember having instructed him. Y. hastily torches his notes and, desperate to discover whether his verses have any artistic worth, goes with the narrator to visit a "great" critic. Their dialogue quickly turns to a deconstruction of creative identity: to the critic, art is relative to the whims of the artist; the narrator and Y. argue that it is an anthropological confluence of history, scholarship, and geography. "Do you mean to say," Y. asks, "that a poem can be a work of art even if there is only one person in the world, only its author, competent to judge it?"
Precisely," the great critic replies.
"Dialogue on the Greater Harmonies" magnifies Landolfi's preoccupation with the discrepancy between language as a preciously untainted tradition and literature as a worthless enterprise. He was confident that originality was manifested by usurping and updating the works of antecedents—pastiche was his art form—and that art is not a vacuum of personal whims, as the critic maintains, but an infinite regression of borrowing. Art, to Landolfi, produces the artist in the same sense that libraries create the savant.
Toward the conclusion of their discussion, Y. recites one of his nonsense poems, offers a remarkably vapid translation, and renounces the prospect that it has any meaning whatsoever. He promises to return with a better translation, and ends up harassing the critic so much that the critic tosses him down a staircase—"or something of the sort," the narrator adds in a typical Landolfian ending. Landolfi was a master of the insulting anticlimax, and usually managed to undermine the seriousness of his topics with an almost vaudevillian indifference. But, of course, he never liked readers anyway." —Michael Peck

"I’m somewhat at a loss of what to say about Gogol’s Wife and Other Stories by Tommaso Landolfi.
In some respects, Landolfi’s stories reminded of Borges’ Fictions: they have elements the bizarre. I didn’t enjoy reading Borges (thoughts here), but I did sense a genius and power behind the writing. Landolfi’s writing is likewise laudable, although I wonder once again what the genius behind the stories actually is. I think it is beyond me.
In some stories, Landolfi narrates incredibly unbelievable events as if they actually occurred, a technique that seemed much like Borges’ stories. For example, in his title story “Gogol’s Wife,” the narrator describes his association with the author Nikolai Gogol and Gogol’s wife, who is a balloon. Yes, a balloon. The bizarre accounts in the story would have been amusing if I wasn’t so distracted by the oddness of it. “Pastoral” likewise is odd: a lonely girl visiting the country writes a city girl about the “hibernation” of the country people during the winter.
Other stories don’t have supernatural elements but have rather difficult personal subjects. “The Two Old Maids” is about a monkey that breaks into a chapel at night. “The Death of the King of France” is a “long and wearisome” account of a man letting go of his obsession with his 12-year-old adopted daughter. (I don’t think I completely understood this disturbing story; please correct me if you think there is a different point to it.)
Some stories weren’t disturbing and were short and easier to relate to. “Dialogue on the Greater Harmonies” asks the question: are poems written in a nonexistent language really a work of art? “Giovanni and His Wife” shares the story of two duet singers – who sing out of tune completely together. “Sunstroke” details the last moments of the death of an owl, and “Wedding Night” is about the chimney sweep visiting during a wedding feast.
In the end, it seems Landolfi’s stories ask questions attempting to define art, right and wrong, and acceptable relationships.
I read Landolfi’s stories because Harold Bloom recommends “Gogol’s Wife” in How to Read and Why. In reading Harold Bloom’s praise of the story “Gogol’s Wife,” I now realize that I must be familiar with Gogol and his writing before it will make sense. Yes, Landolfi’s story was definitely beyond me.
In the end, I readily admit I missed something. I can’t say I loved reading Landolfi, but it’s nice to know that I’m trying things I would not otherwise pick up. I’m trying to have an open mind. Maybe someday I’ll revisit Landolfi and understand better his themes." - Rebecca Reads