I have long wanted to read the Italian writer Elsa Morante, ever since I learned of her influence on Elena Ferrante (you can find my reviews of Ferrante’s work here). Arturo’s Island was Morante’s second novel, originally published in Italian in 1957, and now freshly translated by Ann Goldstein for this Pushkin Press edition (my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy). It is a beautifully-observed, passionate coming-of-age story, one that captures the pain and confusion of adolescence in an imaginative, poetic style.
The narrative is told from the viewpoint of Arturo Gerace as he looks back on his teenage years spent on the remote island of Procida in the Bay of Naples – a tumultuous, troubling time in this young individual’s life.
At fourteen, Arturo spends most of his days roaming around the island, dreaming of great adventures with pirates, kings and other enigmatic figures from tales of fantasy. His father, Wilhelm, is a restless wanderer who frequently leaves the island for long periods with no planned date of return. With his unpredictable nature and temperament, Wilhelm is prone to frequent outbursts, displaying little thought for the feelings and sensitivities of those around him. In spite of this, Arturo idolises his father unquestioningly, eagerly anticipating the day when he is old enough to join Wilhelm on his seemingly intrepid travels.
Every act of his, every speech, had a dramatic fatality for me. In fact, he was the image of certainty, and everything he said or did was the verdict of a universal law from which I deduced the first commandments of my life. Here was the greatest seduction of his company. (p. 24)
Life for young Arturo is a solitary one, with his father often away and his mother no longer alive following her death in childbirth. He yearns for some much-needed love and affection, the kind fuelled by his romantic imagination – the absence of Arturo’s mother is very keenly felt.
She was a person invented by my regrets, and so she had, for me, every wished-for kindness, and different expressions, different voices. But, above all, in the impossible longing I had for her, I thought of her as faithfulness, intimacy, conversation: in other words, all that fathers were not, in my experience. (p. 44)
Moreover, young Arturo is largely in charge of the Geraces’ home, a somewhat run-down, castle-like building bequeathed to Wilhelm by an old friend – a man with an intense dislike of women and their ‘ugly’ appearances. As such, Arturo has had very little exposure to girls or women during his life, particularly given the isolated nature of his upbringing.
One day, Wilhelm returns unexpectedly to Procida with his new bride, Nunziata – a rather hesitant young girl from Naples who has been pushed into marriage by her mother, Violante. At sixteen, Nunziata is barely older than Arturo, a situation that leaves our protagonist struggling to understand this sudden change in dynamics and everything it represents. For the first time in his life, Arturo has a rival for his father’s affections, one who is almost as inexperienced and naïve as the young boy himself.
When I passed my father’s room, I heard from behind the closed door an excited whispering. I was almost running when I reached my room: I suddenly had the sharp, incomprehensible sensation that I had received from someone (whom I couldn’t yet recognise) an inhuman insult, impossible to avenge. I undressed quickly and, as I threw myself into bed, wrapping myself in the covers up to my head, a cry from her reached me through the walls: tender, strangely fierce, and childlike. (p. 124)
Virtually as soon as he has arrived home, Wilhelm becomes restless again, seeking the company of Nunziata and Arturo one minute and then shunning it the next. It’s not long before Wilhelm begins to view Nunziata as an appendage, akin to a tiresome relative of little interest or importance. Consequently, Arturo and Nunziata – the latter now pregnant with Wilhelm’s child – are left mostly on their own at the Casa dei Guaglioni while Wilhelm continues his erratic travels abroad.
At first, Arturo wants as little as possible to do with his new stepmother, shunning her company in favour of wandering around the island.
My antipathy towards my stepmother, meanwhile, didn’t diminish but became fiercer every day. And as a result of the life she led with me during my father’s absence from the island was certainly not very happy. I never spoke to her except to give her orders. If I was outside and wanted to summon her to the window to give her some command, or warn her of my arrival, I used to simply whistle. (p. 158)
Then, all of a sudden, he experiences a dramatic change of heart, prompted by the belief that Nunziata’s life may be in danger during the birth of her child, Carminiello. From this point onwards, Arturo begins to see his stepmother in a new light, viewing her as more beautiful and graceful than before. Meanwhile, Nunziata devotes herself to caring for the new baby, mainly at the expense of any consideration for Arturo or his potential needs – a situation that leaves Arturo feeling somewhat jealous of his new stepbrother.
I felt I could never have peace if she didn’t return to being, toward me, at least, the same as she had been before the fatal arrival of my stepbrother; and yet at no cost did I want to betray that longing to her. So I looked desperately for a means that, without wounding my pride, would force her to be concerned with me, or to manifest once and for all, her irredeemable indifference towards Arturo Gerace. (p. 233)
As the months slip by, Arturo must try to make sense of his emotions as they oscillate between an idealised form of first love for Nunziata and abject disillusionment – his demonstrations of affection are swiftly rejected. He tries, somewhat in vain, to grapple with new and confusing situations in this abrupt exposure to the complexities of the adult world.
Arturo’s Island is an emotionally-rich novel, frequently punctuated with passages of profound depth. Morante skilfully captures the vulnerabilities of youth, the maelstrom of emotions that characterises Arturo’s adolescence – the young boy’s experiences are very keenly felt. The author’s style is perfectly matched to the subject matter at hand: lyrical, intuitive and painfully perceptive. While the main thrust of the narrative takes places in the run-up to WW2, there is a timeless feel to this story, akin to a classic myth or fable.
With its imposing penitentiary, Procida is painted as an isolated, mysterious place, one with elements of menace and darkness, albeit lightened by the allure of the natural world. Morante’s descriptions of the island’s environment are beautifully expressed.
As this excellent novel draws to a close, Arturo must contend with emotions of antipathy, lust, jealousy and disillusionment. Morante’s portrayal of the young boy’s experiences is both intimate and compelling, tackling themes of forbidden love and ambiguous sexuality with insight and sensitivity. Alongside the struggle to reconcile his feelings for Nunziata, Arturo must also come to terms with a new, rather disturbing vision of his father – a discovery that will leave a mark on his character forever.
This is a layered, emotionally-rich novel, one that will likely suit lovers of interior-driven fiction with a strong sense of place. The pace is leisurely, reflecting the rhythm of life on the island – definitely a slow burner, but one that will reward the reader’s patience and emotional investment.
I read this book for Biblibio’s #WITMonth, which is running throughout August. For an interesting companion piece dealing with similar themes, see Agostino (1944) by Alberto Moravia, Elsa Morante’s husband – also very highly recommended indeed.
So glad you enjoyed this as I bought a copy when I was in Oxford despite having the older translation which I picked up because, like you, I’ve always wanted to read Morante. It might be interesting to compare the two!
That would be very interesting indeed! I think the style plays a big part here as it really accentuates the emotions and depth of feeling at play. It would be fascinating to compare the translations to get a sense of how much of that stems from Morante’s original prose vs Goldstein’s rendering into English. That aside, I think you’ll also find this of interest given your knowledge of Moravia’s work. In some respects, it makes for a fascinating companion piece to his Agostino!
I recently bought this Jacqui, so your review is very timely. Glad to know you liked this a lot…Also, very interesting that you mention Morante’s influence on Elena Ferrante. It just so happens that I am reading My Brilliant Friend currently which so far has been very compelling. Which means I must read Morante sooner than later!
Ah, how very timely! I think you’ll enjoy this a great deal. It’s an emotionally-rich novel, very evocative and imaginative in style. I can see how it may well have been an influence on Ferrante, particularly in terms of intensity and passion.
The relationships between the characters as well as the plot, as you describe these things sounds so interesting. Growing up in the world Arturo finds himself here sounds so bewildering. Such situations are the stuff of good, and sometimes great, fiction.
Bewildering is a good word for Arturo’s state of mind. The loss-of-innocence is one of my favourites themes in literature, and this is a particularly good example of it. Not only does Arturo have to get his head around issues of jealousy and sexuality, he also has to come to terms with a different vision of his father – not quite the heroic figure he first appeared to be in Arturo’s childhood.
What a beautiful edition! This sounds very interesting – a good mix of theme and narrative structure.
Lovely, isn’t it? Pushkin Press have done an excellent job on the production of this – high-quality paper, French flaps and an evocative cover design. It’s a beautiful piece of work, very much in tune with the novel itself.
How interesting – I’m reading a book with adolescents wrestling with their emotions at the moment, though the set-up is not quite a complex as it seems here. It does sound like the narrative is soaked in emotional intensity! :D
Funnily enough, I was just saying to Brian that this transition from childhood to adulthood (and the loss of innocence that frequently accompanies it) is one of my favourite themes in literature. I’m often drawn to it. Your current read sounds intriguing, so it’ll be interesting to hear more about that – as and when you get a chance to write it up!
Wonderful review. Ann Goldstein is such a safe pair of hands in the world of translation. I love a coming of age tale, and this sounds fabulous.
I think you’d like this a great deal. It’s emotionally rich and evocative, just ideal for reading at this time of year. And you’re right about Ann Goldstein’s talents as a translator. I think I heard her being interviewed about the challenges of working on Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels with their long run-on sentences and intensity of feeling. It’s such a delicately-balanced skill, I think, this business of translation…quite an art in many respects
I liked Arturo’s Island at least as much as you did.
That’s great. I’m glad to hear you enjoyed it too. Have you read Alberto Moravia’s Agostino? If not, you might find it of interest given some of the similarities in themes.
Yes, I’ve read Agostino. I have read about ten novels and a few collections of stories by Alberto Moravia. My favorite is probably ‘Contempt’ which is also a short novel like ‘Agostino’. Brigitte Bardot actually starred in the movie Contempt and it probably was her best acting performance. But all of Moravia’s work have bee wonderful so far. .
He’s an interesting writer for sure, certainly one who doesn’t shy away from tackling sensitive or controversial subjects. I have seen the film adaptation of Contempt, but I’ve yet to read the original book. It’s good to hear you rate it so highly – that’s very reassuring.
This does sound almost mythic and very evocative of place. Pushkin Press don’t seem to put a foot wrong!
Yes, the island itself is almost another character in the book with its mix of beauty and ambiguity. The presence of the penitentiary gives it an air of danger and menace – the threat of the unknown, so to speak. I think it adds another dimension to the atmosphere in the book, an extra layer of mystery and secrecy.
I loved Agostino so I’ll second your recommendation:)
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I just found your blog, and when I saw you had a whole list of reviews of Women in Translation, I had to take a look. While I don’t read a whole lot of translated novels, I just reviewed “Klotsvog” by Margarita Khemlin (Translated by Lisa C. Hayden). Fascinating. But I do have to say that the finest translated book I’ve ever read was “All the Rivers” by Dorit Rabinyan.
Ah, I don’t think I’ve ever come across the Khemlin. Thanks for the tip. I’ll take a look.
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