It’s early April, so it must be almost time for another of Karen and Simon’s ‘Club’ weeks! On Monday 15th, the #1937Club will begin – a week-long celebration of books first published in 1937. These ‘Club’ events are always great fun, and I’m looking forward to seeing all the various tweets, reviews and recommendations flying around the web.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, given my fondness for mid-20th-century lit, I’ve reviewed a few 1937 books over the years. So, if you’re thinking of taking part in the Club, here are my recommendations.
Probably my favourite of the five novels featured here, although all have something interesting to offer. Elisa is devastated when she realises that her husband, Gilles, has become entangled with her attractive younger sister, Victorine. Beautifully written in a sensual, intimate style, La Femme de Gilles is a very compelling novella with a powerful ending. The writing is spare but very emotive – Bourdouxhe holds the reader close to Elisa’s point of view giving us near-complete access to her inner thoughts and feelings. A timeless story of desire, selfless love, and the pain these things can bring. Highly recommended, particularly for fans of writers such as Simenon, Anita Brookner and Jean Rhys.
An intriguing mystery by one of my favourite women writers from the Golden Age of crime fiction, now back in print as a British Library Crime Classic. A treasure hunt party in a well-to-do London house, various literary pseudonyms, a sudden blackout and two dead bodies all come together to form a complex puzzle for Chief Inspector Macdonald to solve. As the story unfolds, the action shifts from London to the Berkshire countryside, widening the novel’s scope. Fans of cryptic crosswords and anagrams will likely enjoy this one, especially given the relevance of the novel’s title.
This book was published while Keun was living in exile in Europe after leaving Germany in 1936. Deceptively straightforward and engaging on the surface, the novel is actually a very subtle and insightful critique of the Nazi regime, written by an author who had experienced the challenges of navigating the system first-hand. It’s an excellent book, drawing the reader in from its striking opening line.
You can open an envelope and take out something which bites or stings, though it isn’t a living creature.
After Midnight also provides a genuine insight into a country on the brink of self-destruction. Keun is particularly illuminating on how easily a society can shift such that the unimaginable becomes a reality as a new world order is established.
Mona Lisa by Alexander Lernet-Holenia (tr. Ignat Avsey)
Some of you may be familiar with Alexander Lernet-Holenia’s intriguing novella I Was Jack Mortimer, a fast-moving, offbeat crime story set in 1930s Vienna. Nevertheless, there’s more to this author than that mystery suggests. Mona Lisa is a charming tale about love, life, and the search for beauty, told with much verve and wit. I thoroughly enjoyed this story of the captivating power of art and how we project our own emotions and feelings onto the images we see before us. Highly recommended, especially if this description appeals.
Journey by Moonlight by Antal Szerb (tr. Len Rix)
This marvellous novel was a pre-blog read for me, so I haven’t written about it before. Nevertheless, several other reviewers have, so do check out their reviews – you can find Max’s and Karen’s posts by clicking on the links. When I think of this novel, it’s the nostalgic, dreamlike atmosphere that comes to mind. There’s a lot more to Journey by Moonlight than that, of course, but the evocative mood is the first thing I recall. Various train journeys across Italy also feature prominently. I’d really like to reread this at some point, even if it doesn’t happen next week!
So there we are, a few recommendations for next week’s #1937Club! Do let me know your thoughts on these books if you’ve read any of them. Or maybe you have plans of your own for the week – if so, feel free to mention them here.
Last year, the Italian-Cuban writer Alba de Céspedes secured a spot in my books-of-year with Forbidden Notebook – a candid, exquisitely written novel in which a middle-aged woman in post-war Rome finds a release from marriage and motherhood by keeping a secret journal. This year, she looks set to repeat this feat with her immersive, richly-textured 1949 novel Her Side of the Story – at once a blistering portrayal of the constraints, frustrations and realities of life for women trapped in a patriarchal society and a vivid coming-of-age story giving voice to the female experience in 1940s Italy.
The granddaughter of the first president of Cuba, de Céspedes was born and raised in Rome, and her first marriage, at the age of fifteen, ended in divorce after just five years. While working as a journalist in the 1930s, she was politically active, lending her support to anti-fascist activities for which she was imprisoned twice. I mention these things because they are relevant to Her Side of the Story, which follows its central protagonist, Alessandra, from her adolescence in Rome to early adulthood, taking in the rise of fascism in Italy, the impact of WW2 and anti-fascist activities. These acts of resistance are spearheaded by Alessandra’s great love, Francesco, a university lecturer and prominent member of the anti-fascist movement. It’s a fascinating story, echoing Natalia Ginzburg’s marvellous novel All Our Yesterdays in style and themes.
Her Side comes with an interesting framing device, but this only becomes fully apparent as the narrative draws to a close. Nevertheless, it’s clear from the outset that Alessandra – who narrates the novel – is reflecting on her life thus far, charting her journey to date. As the narrative unfolds, we see how Alessandra’s early years are marked by the death of her older brother, Alessandro, who drowned at the age of three, robbing their parents of a much-feted child. While Alessandra can never live up to the unfulfilled promise of her dead brother, she must also contend with an unsettling darkness within her, almost as if Alessandro’s spirit is driving her blackest thoughts.
De Céspedes excels at portraying the crushing realities of life for Italian women in the late 1930s/early ‘40s, offering us a coruscating critique of this oppressive, patriarchal society.
They [the women] would wait, preparing their trousseau, and trusting in the hope of love and happiness. Instead, they found life draining–-the kitchen, the house, the swelling and flattening of their bodies as they brought children into the world. Gradually, beneath an appearance of resignation, the women began to feel angry and resentful about the trap they’d been lured into. (p. 22)
The suffering that life inflicts on the female body is a prominent theme here, touching on the shock of adolescence, the repeated violations of sex, the ruptures from childbirth and the indignities of old age.
While Alessandra’s father – a simple man from country peasant stock – is spiteful, crude and controlling, her mother, Eleanora, is more emotionally attuned to the world around her. In short, she is a compassionate, graceful woman with an artistic flair, and naturally Alessandra adores her.
Having sidelined any ambitions of playing the piano professionally, Elenora is now reduced to tutoring children alongside her designated roles as wife and mother. Nevertheless, like many women in her apartment block, she finds herself drawn to another man – an artistic soulmate by the name of Hervey, whom she meets while teaching piano to a wealthy family in the city. While other Roman women willingly take lovers as a release from domestic oppression, Eleanora is more romantic, falling for Hervey and the values he embodies.
We finally understood the reason for the silence that fell over the deserted courtyard every afternoon. Released from their thankless tasks and making a brave stand against the dull life they had to live, the women fled the dark rooms, the gray kitchens, the courtyard that, as darkness fell, awaited the inevitable death of another day of pointless youth. The old women, bent over their sewing, stayed behind like pillars, guarding those neat, silent houses. They didn’t betray the young women: rather, they helped them, as if they were members of the same congregation. They were bound by a silent and long-standing scorn for men’s lives, for their cruel and selfish ways, in a repressed bitterness that was handed down from one generation to the next. (p. 21)
This initial section of the novel ends in tragedy – a tragedy for which Alessandra feels partly responsible. Sadly, her father supports this view, making their home life untenable. Consequently, Alessandra is packed off to her father’s sizeable family in rural Abruzzo, where she finds solace and beauty in the natural world while fighting fiercely to continue her studies. Alessandra’s powerful grandmother, Nonna, initially opposes her granddaughter’s aspirations, envisaging a life of marriage, motherhood and domesticity instead. However, after some lobbying from Alessandra’s uncle, Nonna ultimately relents, demonstrating an understanding of her granddaughter’s determination, even if she doesn’t agree with its direction.
The rhythms of this simple, rural life are vividly evoked as the women immerse themselves in cooking, cleaning, childrearing and sewing while the men see to their farms. Land ownership is a sign of status here, but it’s not an ambition Alessandra recognises or aspires to. In short, she wishes to break the cycle of oppression, escaping the traditional expectations of marriage and motherhood, a life solely dedicated to the needs and whims of men. Rather, she sees her future as being entwined with her mother’s (and maternal grandmother’s) artistic pursuits. Having observed Eleanora’s love for Hervey, Alessandra believes passionately in the existence of romantic love, but it’s a myth or fallacy that ultimately dictates her fate…
When Alessandra rejects the prospect of marriage from a local farmer – a transgression compounded by her brutal strangling of a prized rooster – she is dispatched back to Rome to care for her father. This move coincides with the encroachment of war, heightening the sense of anxiety in this tense, febrile city.
The real danger of war, in fact, seemed to lie precisely in the fear and inertia that, like a dense fog, gradually and inexorably overtook us, robbing us of our faith in the future. (p. 235)
Even in the depths of Abruzzo, Mussolini – repeatedly referred to as ‘the arrogant voice on the radio’ – proves an ominous presence in people’s lives, infiltrating their world as the country prepares for war.
Back in Rome, Alessandra meets the great love of her life – the charismatic writer and academic Francesco Minelli, an active member of the anti-Fascist resistance – through a mutual friend. Francesco is everything Alessandra has been looking for, and she falls deeply in love with him, blissfully unaware of his political affiliations, initially at least. Marriage soon follows, but the honeymoon period is short-lived. With her romantic ideals and aspirations, Alessandra hopes Francesco will be as emotionally invested in their marriage as she is. But her husband’s focus lies elsewhere, dictated by the demands of his anti-fascist campaign, leaving little time for Alessandra’s dreams and desires. Even her perilous efforts to support the resistance – transporting bombs amidst the vegetables in her bicycle basket while Francesco is in jail – fail to win his praise.
At twenty-one and a year into her marriage, Alessandra is left feeling disillusioned and unappreciated. In truth, she wishes to free herself of her love for Francesco but is unable to achieve this. Meanwhile, Francesco is striving for freedom of another sort – ideological or political freedom from the heinous fascist regime.
…I would have to accept my marriage, the loneliness it brought with it, its decline, the end of the romantic plan through which we had invented ourselves. I had to have the courage to live behind the wall [of Francesco’s shoulders in bed at night], as Claudio lived behind barbed wire. But I didn’t have that sort of courage, just as Francesco didn’t have the courage to accept the annihilation of his own moral freedom. (p. 408)
This intimate portrayal of Alessandra’s inner life gives the novel its undeniable power. Every thought, incident or emotion is vividly conveyed, offering readers a rich insight into Alessandra’s feelings as she navigates the challenges life throws at her. The settings too are brilliantly evoked, from the urban poverty of wartime Rome to the wildness and natural beauty of the countryside in Abruzzo.
The wide valley was embraced by a chain of hills and mountains, which were tinted pink or yellow depending on the position of the sun in the sky. And in the light of the sun they looked benevolent and welcoming. But other miserable hamlets emerged on the mountainside like mushrooms, or warts, cut off by creeks and valleys, their bell towers rising from the center like a howl (p. 169)
De Céspedes also finds time for a little humour, particularly in her wryly amusing descriptions of rural life.
Nonna was alone in the dining room, apparently sleeping. Her eyes were closed, her hands on the armrests, and she was resting upright, like some majestic horse. (p. 152)
So, in summary then, another thoroughly immersive rediscovered gem of Italian literature from this powerful feminist voice. It’s also a fascinating insight into women’s lives in Italian society during the rise of fascism. One of the most compelling aspects of Her Side is just how candid it feels, especially for a novel first published in 1949. De Céspedes artfully illustrates how the cumulative impact of multiple humiliations and frustrations can suddenly erupt, driving the most sensitive of individuals to desperation – the passing down of trauma through the generations is also significant here. Interestingly, the novel contains a noticeable undercurrent of darkness throughout, which might explain why Elena Ferrante holds de Céspedes – and Her Side of the Story – in such high esteem. Fans of Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels will find much to enjoy here. This freshly translated version, beautifully produced by Pushkin Press, comes with a thoughtful afterword by Ferrante herself, shedding further light on the significance of certain scenes.
(My thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.)
Although I rarely travel abroad these days, Italy remains a favourite holiday destination, steeped in a cultural history I find endlessly fascinating. As such, this gorgeous collection of personal essays on Italy by the American writer Cynthia Zarin was always going to captivate me. Zarin is a poet, and these short pieces, weaving together elements of travel writing, personal reflections and touchstones from the world of literature, are expressed in an evocative, meandering style. Lovers of Lauren Elkin’s work – particularly No. 91/92: notes on a Parisian commuteand Flâneuse – will find much to enjoy here. Ditto Valeria Luiselli’s meditative essay collection,Sidewalks, and Deborah Levy’s beautiful Living Autobiography trilogy, both of which sprang to mind as I read Zarin’s dreamy, lyrical book.
In Italy comprises four personal meditations of varying length – one on Venice (Serene), two on Rome (Roma and Angels) and one on the Basilica di San Francesco d’Assisi (Basilica) – all wonderfully immersive and pleasurable to read. If you like wandering around cities, meandering down alleyways – both literal and metaphorical – In Italyis a book for you.
Zarin writes openly about how certain places evoke deep-seated memories, reminding us of previous visits, old relationships and long-held regrets. Both Seren and Roma are haunted by the ghosts of former (or soon-to-be-former) lovers, flitting through the author’s mind as she moves around these cities. Ostensibly, Zarin has returned to Venice to attend a party in honour of the Joseph Brodsky Foundation – a visit she hopes to write about for a literary magazine. But alongside her main purpose, Zarin has another, more personal reason for the trip. A troublesome relationship is dying, ushering in a transition period and the need for some space to think.
I had come to Venice because I was preparing to break my own heart, and I needed another version of love. (p. 52)
The man – whom she refers to as ‘Bronzino’ because he looks like a portrait by the renowned Mannerist artist – has declined to accompany her to Venice, citing the visit as ‘another thing they cannot do together’. Naturally, Zarin feels deeply hurt by this rejection. Nevertheless, the reader suspects she will be much better off without this prima donna, free of his infuriating text messages and complex romantic entanglements.
Six months before, I had fallen in love with an old friend, an acquaintance, really, a friend of friends, who sometimes had come to dinner with a woman to whom he was or wasn’t married, with whom he did or did not live. There was no end to the complications. (p. 5)
Zarin knew Joseph Brodsky and his wife, Maria, before the poet’s death in the mid-1990s. In fact, Zarin and Maria had given birth to their daughters at roughly the same time, often meeting up in New York as the girls were growing up. In one of the most affecting sections of the book, Zarin writes movingly of her regrets at not attending Brodsky’s burial on the island of San Michele, the ghosts of another broken relationship resurfacing in her mind.
I had not gone to Joseph’s burial on the island; at the time I had been deep in a life of small children, and the idea of riding a gondola to the island of the dead half the world away seemed not only unmanageable but ridiculous, like wearing fancy dress for breakfast. But, now that I had veered from that life into another, I regretted that impulse toward practicality, which in its various manifestations had not only gotten me nowhere but had imploded, leaving a kind of wreckage. It would have been better if I had gone. (pp. 40–41)
In some respects, this current trip to Venice is a pilgrimage for Zarin, offering the opportunity to visit Brodsky’s grave to pay her respects.
As one might expect with this style of writing, Zarin excels in leading the reader in different directions, her mind meandering from one topic to another on a frequent basis. We follow the author as she visits churches, marvels at frescoes, shops for souvenirs, attends parties, pays homage to the dead, and observes a myriad of other people, admiring the impossible beauty of Italian culture as she goes about her days.
But I like best the shadowed fresco to the right of the huge wooden door, in which Francis speaks to each bird individually, attentive to their particular concerns. The background is a quiet, pale-green twilight, although one can imagine the scrabble and the clamour. The birds themselves are barely birds, but strokes and dabs of feeling, about to navigate the high green air, like the clouds painted by Turner… (p. 60)
Zarin is adept at capturing the effortless glamour of Italian women irrespective of age, their hair ‘streaked with silver’ and ‘pulled into chignons’, their bodies adorned with precious stones.
The women do not look as if they had fussed in front of a mirror but as if they had been born to their clothes: beautifully cut linen skirts, in pale colours, as it is summer – mauve, or peach, the shades of a Murano chandelier; white silk blouses; low-heeled handmade shoes with tortoiseshell buckles. (p. 37)
Drawing on her skills as a poet, Zarin also has an eye for beautifully judged details, conveying her surroundings in vivid, painterly ways.
A ruby catches the sun and shoots tiny red lights onto the columns, near where waiters are setting down large woven baskets of what look like pieces of soap. (p. 38)
While Venice is imbued with femininity, Rome is a masculine city, the air pungent with a blend of honeysuckle, garbage and salt. Here, Zarin recalls other literary visitors to Rome – most notably the Anglo-Irish writer Elizabeth Bowen, who spent three months in the Italian capital in 1953. Bowen too was embroiled in a complex relationship during her European sojourn, balancing an affair with the Canadian journalist Charles Ritchie with her sexless marriage to Alan Cameron, a British Civil servant. There are other literary touchstones, too – Elizabeth Barret Browning’s letters written in Italy and John Keats’ villa in Rome, now a memorial museum on the city’s Spanish Steps.
Once again, Zarin’s thoughts are haunted by the spectre of a former lover, ‘printing himself like a drowned negative on the walls of this city’, evoking painful memories that mingle with the present.
Whether you’re planning a trip to Italy in the future or happy to spend an hour or two in the hands of thoughtful writer, In Italy offers a lovely escape from the mundanity of daily life. I loved spending time with Zarin, seeing these locations anew through her eyes, complete with personal reflections and vivid observations.
In summary then, this is a gorgeous, evocative book, combining threads of travel writing, memories and literary references in a captivating, dreamlike style, blurring the margins between the past and present in a highly engaging way. Recommended, especially for fans of Lauren Elkin, Valeria Luiselli and Deborah Levy.
In Italy is published by Daunt Books; my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy. (This review also contributes to Karen and Lizzy’s #ReadIndies project, which runs throughout February.)
Dating originally from 1947, The Dry Heart is one of Natalia Ginzburg’s earliest and most striking novellas. Slim, precise and utterly haunting, it tells the story of an unhappy marriage; in fact, in many respects, the marriage appears to be a mismatch from the very start…
The story opens with a death when our unnamed narrator, a married woman in her mid-twenties, shoots her husband, Alberto, between the eyes, leaving him for dead.
‘Tell me the truth,’ I said.
‘What truth?’ he echoed. He was making a rapid sketch in his notebook and now he showed me what it was: a long, long train with a big cloud of black smoke swirling over it and himself leaning out of a window to wave a handkerchief.
I shot him between the eyes. (p. 1)
Having failed to elicit the truth from her husband, the woman goes out to a café where she begins to tell us the true nature of their relationship from her perspective. From here, we move back a few years to find the narrator working as a schoolteacher in the city, far away from her conservative family home in the Italian countryside. Life for this young woman is grim; the days are long and lonely, and the down-at-heel boarding house where she lodges is dreary and intrusive.
The boarding house was gloomy, with dark hangings and upholstery, and in the room next to mine a colonel’s widow knocked on the wall with a hairbrush every time I opened the window or moved a chair. I had to get up early in order to arrive on time at the school where I was a teacher. I dressed in a hurry and ate a roll and an egg which I boiled over a tiny alcohol stove. The colonel’s widow knocked furiously on the wall while I moved about the room looking for my clothes, and in the bathroom the landlady’s hysterical daughter screeched like a peacock while they gave her a warm shower which was supposed to calm her down. (pp. 5-6)
Everything changes, however, when she meets Alberto, a forty-year-old lawyer of independent means – the first man to ever show any interest in her. While Alberto effectively courts the young woman during their walks and trips to various concerts, he never expresses his feelings and shares little about his life. In her naiveté and innocence, the narrator allows her imagination to run amok, convincing herself she is in love. Consequently, the young woman declares her feelings for Alberto in the hope of generating a response. Alberto, though, loves Giovanna, a married woman he has been seeing intermittently for several years – a point he confesses to the narrator when she reveals her hand.
After some toing and froing, Alberto asks the narrator to marry him. In truth, he is lonely following his mother’s recent death; and this, coupled with his guilt over hurting the narrator’s feelings, prompts his proposal. Even though she knows Alberto doesn’t love her in the way she would like, the narrator agrees to marry him, conveying these events to the reader in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
When Alberto asked me to marry him I said yes, I asked him how he expected to live with me if he was in love with somebody else, and he said that if I loved him very much and was very brave we might make out very well together. Plenty of marriages are like that, he said, because it’s very unusual for both partners to love each other the same way. (p. 26)
I don’t want to go into too much detail about the unravelling of the couple’s marriage (after all, we know it ends badly), but you can probably guess what happens. Alberto remains secretive throughout, disappearing for days at a time and refusing to answer his wife’s questions when he deigns to return. But our narrator knows full well who he’s been with, even if he doesn’t have the decency to admit it.
In spare, precise, crystal-clear prose, Ginzburg expertly conveys the limits placed on women by a conservative, patriarchal society – namely marriage, motherhood and familial responsibilities – and the difficulties of breaking through these restrictions in the mid-20th century. Moreover, she shows how the narrator is trapped in a desperately unhappy marriage, knowing that her husband is unfaithful but feeling powerless to address it. There is such a palpable sense of loneliness and dashed dreams here, a feeling of desperation in this woman’s desire for affection – and without any meaningful sense of connection, her imagination fills the void while she withers inside.
I thought how all of us are always trying to imagine what someone else is doing, eating our hearts out trying to find the truth and moving about in our own private worlds like a blind man who gropes for the walls and the various objects in a room. (p. 59)
In time, Ginzburg’s protagonist is driven to the edge, resorting to the most drastic of escape routes, irrespective of the consequences her actions will bring. While it might be a split-second decision on the narrator’s part, there’s a sense that things have been brewing for a while.
The novella also highlights how women are often drawn into making fundamental life choices (particularly marriage and motherhood), at a very young age with limited experience or insight to guide them – a point that remains highly relevant today.
‘…We’re stupid and don’t know what we really want when we’re young. Life runs away with us before we know what it’s all about.’ (p. 77)
There’s an interesting contrast, too, with the narrator’s more independent cousin, Francesca, who eschews marriage in favour of a freer existence. Somewhat inevitably, she also finds her life constrained by the limitations placed on her gender, a situation that presents its own challenges.
I love how this novella reminds me of some of Barbara Comyns’ work, particularly Our Spoons Came from Woolworths, with its childlike narrator and matter-of-fact tone of voice. There are some wonderful touches of wry humour here amidst the sadness of this woman’s story, most notably in Ginzburg’s descriptions of the boarding house setting at the beginning of the book. Not forgetting Alberto’s mother’s love of Sanskrit and refusal to wear shoes!
So, another excellent, psychologically vivid novella from Natalia Ginzburg, who is fast becoming one of my favourite writers in translation. If you like the sound of this one, my friends Trevor and Paul from The Mookse and the Gripes podcast have chosen it for their Summer Book Club, so keep an eye out for their discussion which will be coming soon.
The Dry Heart is published by Daunt Books; my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.
There’s been something of a resurgence of interest in ‘classic’ Italian women writers in recent years, largely focusing on Natalia Ginzburg, whose work I very much enjoy. (Her essay collection The Little Virtues is easily one of my standout reads of the year so far.) Other female writers from the mid-20th century are also being rediscovered, from Alba de Cespedes and Anna Maria Ortese to Elsa Morante and Iris Origo. (Whilst Origo wasn’t born in Italy, she lived there for many years, documenting the events of WW2 from her home in Val d’Orcia, Tuscany.)
Now we can add the Italian writer, poet and artist Lalla Romano to that list, courtesy of this beautiful reissue of her 1957 novella A Silence Shared – freshly translated by Brian Robert Moore and recently published by Pushkin Press. It’s a gorgeous, enigmatic novella, like an ode to stillness and silence, all expressed in Romano’s subtle, poetic prose.
The story takes place deep in the midst of the Italian countryside during the autumn and winter months of 1943. Giulia, the young woman who narrates the novel, has left her home in Turin to stay with two of her mother’s elderly cousins, leaving behind her husband, Stefano, who works in the city. With bombings continuing across Northern and Central Italy, the cousins’ rural home is a place of relative safety, particularly given the tense atmosphere in Turin.
Shortly after her arrival, Giulia becomes intrigued by an enigmatic married couple also sheltering in the hills – the lively, spontaneous Ada and her distant, pre-occupied husband, Paolo. The pair have been driven into hiding at the secluded Tetto Murato (which literally means ‘walled roof’) mostly due to Paolo’s activities in the resistance – a situation compounded by severe asthma, which frequently lays him low.
I had heard people talk about them [Paolo and Ada], the way locals talk about out-of-towners: as something suspicious, if not outright scandalous.
He, a teacher and intellectual, sent to that isolated town near the border as if in a kind of exile; she, proud, aristocratic. No one knew how they managed to get by: they didn’t give lessons, and yet no one could say they had racked up any debts. Worst of all was that they “didn’t go to church”. (p. 15)
As the weeks slip by, Giulia is increasingly drawn to Paolo and Ada at Tetto Murato, walking there and back each day to spend time in the couple’s orbit while helping with Paolo’s care. A sense of connection swiftly develops between Giulia and Paolo, a kind of affinity or unspoken bond which flourishes in their shared silences, enhancing the rarefied atmosphere in the house. Similarly, when Stefano pays the occasional visit to Giulia, he is often drawn to Ada – not in a sexual way but in a spiritual sense, like two kindred spirits coming together as one.
There is something dreamlike and hypnotic about this novel, as if the reader is viewing every development through a light, gauzy curtain, rendering everything with a hazy, shimmering glow. Romano excels in creating an intimate, emotionally charged atmosphere, highlighting the developing relationships between Giulia, Paolo and Ada – not forgetting Stefano during his occasional visits to the house.
The stove at the foot of the bed emitted heat, but the siege of the night and the cold was pressing up against the small windows. I lay motionless, the fur weighing lightly and pleasantly on my body, in the warmth and in the faint scent of that bed that wasn’t my own. “Their” bed. I was a bit perturbed, but happy, too. It had been easy: with Ada, everything was easy. (p. 77)
This is a novel in which silence envelops everything from the house at Tetto Murato to the occupants themselves. Very little happens in terms of narrative plot; instead, Romana is more interested in evoking atmosphere and mood, painting her novel in scenes where so much remains unsaid. Moreover, there is an unspoken air of disapproval in the cousins’ attitude to Giulia’s closeness to Paola and Ada – another kind of silence that permeates the book.
The need for concealment offers the central characters the possibility of deep intimacy – an atmosphere that encourages intense, unspoken emotions to flow between them, transcending marital bonds and fidelities – with Paolo’s illness adding another layer of intimacy and intensity to an already clandestine situation.
I would give my all, straining to make out what Paolo said when, in the drowsy state caused by the injections, a sudden start would jolt through him. I spoke to him for hours during the night: it was my task, and—in the dark and in the silence—communication between the two of us became natural, profound. (p. 106)
Romano was a painter before she became a writer, and her gift for visual imagery plays a significant part in this book. In conveying the mood at Tetto Murato, the author draws on all the senses, from the starlight gracing the landscape at night to the aromas of smoke, grain and baked apples wafting through the house. As Giulia, Ada and Paola lie in bed together, snuggling under the fur blanket for warmth, we can feel the heat from the fire, sense the sharp frost outside, hear the crunch of snow underfoot.
I held my breath for a second when arriving at Tetto Murato. The silence enveloped—more compact than the snow—the semi-buried houses, and the great black pine tree, in its infinite melancholy, seemed simultaneously to point to and to hide a secret. (p. 130)
The sense of place is also beautifully evoked, particularly the countryside that Giulia cuts through on her daily pilgrimages to Tetto Murato. The simple, untamed beauty of the landscape – a beauty ‘born out of poverty’ – is characterised by fields of mulberry trees and patches of wild brambles, highlighting the contrast with the tense atmosphere in town.
Beyond town, the riverbanks—the high, woody stretches along the river—flourished, thick and blooming; and so much beauty seemed like madness, now that the sky was cut through daily by flocks of migrating birds and the town was becoming more and more withdrawn, taciturn, patrolled up and down by the frightening ranks of the Muti brigade. (p. 37)
As winter gives way to spring, other changes permeate the air – a sense of wistfulness or regret as the protagonists’ time together may come to a natural end.
Romano has written a haunting, dreamlike novel here, like a love letter to human connection in a time of great uncertainty, heightened by the need to shelter from the turmoil of war. (My thanks to the publishers and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a review copy.)
A few months ago, I wrote about A Chill in the Air, a series of diary entries by the British-born writer and biographer Iris Origo. It’s a truly fascinating book, a remarkable record of developments leading up to Italy’s entry into the Second World War, written from La Foce, the Origos’ Tuscan estate. A Chill covers the period from March 1939 to July 1940, ending with the birth of the couple’s second child, Benedetta. Consequently, Origo was too busy to write for a couple of years; nevertheless, she returned to the task in January 1943, documenting events for a further eighteen months. These are the diary entries I’ll be covering here, published as War in Val d’Orcia, An Italian War Diary, 1943 – 1944.
There is more about Orgio’s background in my earlier review, but suffice it to say that by the outbreak of war, there are fifty-seven farms on La Foce, overseen and supported by Iris and her husband, Antonio, who are generous to a fault.
Italy’s position in the war is complex, to say the least. As Virginia Nicholson notes in her introduction to the NYRB Classics edition, Mussolini’s Fascist government initially aligns itself with Germany; however, by 1943, Fascism in Italy is becoming ‘a spent force’ with Il Duce losing his grip over the nation. The Allies are beginning to drive the Germans out of Italy, moving forward from the south while simultaneously bombing German strongholds, such as Genoa, Bologna and Turin in the north. Consequently, Italy finds itself under attack on multiple fronts, from bombings by the Allies to ravages by the Germans.
Irrespective of the perils and uncertainties of the family’s personal situation, Origo remains remarkably clear-eyed in her analysis of the political climate in Italy, highlighting the terrible dilemma facing the country by the summer of 1943.
Bombing all over Italy: Genoa, Bologna, Naples, Parma, Foggia. Simultaneously a broadcast of Churchill and Roosevelt to the Italian people urges them to overthrow the Fascist regime, and offers them ‘an honourable capitulation’ and ‘a respected place among the free peoples of Europe’. Germany, says the message, has betrayed the Italian people: Mussolini and Fascism have betrayed them. If they do not capitulate, Italy will be destroyed. It is for the Italians to decide whether they will die for Mussolini and Hitler or live for peace and liberty. (p. 65)
We sense the author’s frustration when the King of Italy and his Marshall, Badoglio, fail to seize the opportunity to make peace with the Allies in July ‘43, effectively prolonging the conflict and loss of life as the country tears itself apart.
Moreover, she outlines the regional variations in government across the country – broadly speaking, the Germans in the north and the Allies in the south, albeit with various local and regional loyalties complicating the mix. Sympathies are divided across the Italian population, ranging from fervent anti-Fascists looking to join the Allies, to those less willing to support either side (particularly when they feel betrayed by the King and Badoglio’s fecklessness). Even among those who oppose the Fascists, there are differing views on how best to achieve a peaceful resolution, with some advocating decisive action while others favour a more passive form of endurance. In addition, there are great swathes of Italians who are just trying to keep their heads downs in the hope of surviving. These are the ‘tira a campare’ (referred to as the ‘just rubs along’) – weary, suspicious and deeply disillusioned, these individuals are fully aware that more suffering lies ahead, their main aims being self-protection and the preservation of life.
Something that comes through so strongly here is the generosity of the Italian people, the numerous acts of bravery, compassion and selflessness that occur on a daily basis, frequently at great personal risk and expense to the Italians themselves. Numerous humanitarian actions and sacrifices are documented in these diaries – too many to mention here, but they are genuinely humbling to read.
Much has been said in these times (and not least by the Italians themselves) about Italian cowardice and Italian treachery. But here is a man (and there are hundreds of others like him) who has run the risk of being shot, who has shared his family’s food to the last crumb, and who has lodged, clothed and protected four strangers for over three months—and who now proposes continuing to do so, while perfectly aware of all the risks that he is running. What is this, if not courage and loyalty? (p. 196)
The Origos, for their part, set a heroic example in this respect, taking in twenty-three refugee children in early 1943 following the bombings in Genoa and Turin. Food, clothing and other essential supplies are in perilously short supply, but somehow they manage to get by through a combination of grit, resourcefulness and determination. Day after day, the Origos selflessly help a seemingly endless stream of fugitives, partisans, evacuees, Italian soldiers and Allied POWs who call at the estate, providing food, clothes, shelter, medical support and directions, depending on individuals’ needs.
Two other fugitives, Italian airmen from Albania—one suffering from bronchitis—who have already been captured twice by the Germans and have now walked down from Vincenza. They have given up all hope of getting through the lines, and beg to be allowed to stay on here and work, until the Germans retreat. We find a place for them at one of our farms. (p. 158)
In many instances, they help these people to lie low in the nearby woods (by May 1944, there are 200 men hiding out with the Origos’ support!), often at great risk to themselves as the punishments for shielding partisans or Allied POWs become increasingly severe. Meanwhile, reprisals for attacks on German forces continue to erupt across Italy, adding another element of threat to an already volatile situation.
At Livorno the German O.C. has taken fifty hostages, in reprisal for attacks upon German soldiers, and has issued a proclamation announcing that if there is any further trouble, five of them will immediately be shot and the whole population of the suburbs of Livorno will be evacuated without notice. (p. 122)
Origo is particularly adept at capturing the everyday rhythms of a country at war, the peculiar mix of frustration, confusion, uncertainty, anxiety, boredom, exhaustion, bravery and compassion. Alongside the immediate dangers, Iris and Antonio must also grapple with various long-term worries and uncertainties. What will life be like when the war is over? Will there be enough money to survive? What sort of world will they be raising their children in, and how will they cope? Can peace and harmony ever be restored in a divided country and a fractured Europe?
By June 1944, the Germans have taken over La Foce, forcing the Origos and the children in their care to take shelter in the estate’s cellar. With the Allies on their way but still tantalisingly out of reach, the Origos and their charges (a group of 60 in total) are forced to leave for Montepulciano, making the journey on foot while trying to shelter from the conflict. Thankfully they arrive safely, albeit exhausted from the flight, both physically and mentally.
This remarkable diary ends on a hopeful note with the liberation of La Foce when the Allies finally make it to Tuscany a week or two after the Origos’ departure. Unsurprisingly, there is much rebuilding to be done when the Origos return to their estate, but Iris remains firmly optimistic for the future.
It’s an astonishing end to a frankly astonishing account of the war from one woman’s perspective. There is so much humanity, generosity and compassion within these pages, it’s heartening to see. Like many other accounts of war, Origo’s diaries are a testament to the folly of conflict and the strength of those who resist it. Highly recommended to any reader with an interest in this crucial period of history.
Published in Italy in 1952 and freshly translated here by Ann Goldstein, Forbidden Notebook is a remarkable rediscovered gem of Italian literature, a candid, exquisitely-written confessional from an evocative feminist voice. Its author, Alba de Céspedes, was a bestselling novelist, poet and screenwriter of Italian-Cuban heritage. The granddaughter of the first president of Cuba, de Céspedes was born and raised in Rome. While working as a journalist in the 1930s, she was politically active, lending her support to anti-fascist activities for which she was imprisoned twice. Her writing, however, seems more concerned with the inner lives of women, their deepest feelings and desires, their preoccupations and discontents – topics that remain acutely relevant to this day.
The novel is narrated by forty-three-year-old Valeria Cossati, who experiences an irresistible urge to purchase a black notebook while buying cigarettes for her husband, Michele, one Sunday morning. Although the tobacconist is not permitted to sell such items on a Sunday, he does so in response to Valeria’s pleas – and this small act of rebellion sets the novel’s subversive tone from the opening scene.
Over the next six months, Valeria documents her inner thoughts in the notebook with great candour and clarity, laying bare the nature of her world with all its preoccupations. The act of writing becomes a confessional of sorts, an outlet for Valeria’s frustrations with her family – her husband Michele, a somewhat remote but dedicated man, largely wrapped up in his own interests, which Valeria doesn’t share, and their two grown-up children, Riccardo and Mirella, both of whom live at home.
At first, Valeria writes primarily about her children and the tensions in the relationships between the generations. At nineteen, Mirella is self-assured and growing in independence. Her older boyfriend, Cantoni – a successful lawyer – buys her expensive gifts, items that Valeria could never afford for Mirella. In a desire to protect her family’s reputation, Valeria repeatedly clashes with Mirella, urging her not to stay out late or to jeopardise her studies in law to spend time with this man. In short, Valeria struggles to understand her daughter’s values and priorities, capturing her concerns in the private notebook.
Sometimes I think I’m wrong to write down everything that happens; fixed in writing, even what is, in essence, not bad seems bad. I was wrong to write about the conversation I had with Mirella when she came home late and, after talking for a long time, we separated not as mother and daughter, but as two hostile women. If I hadn’t written it, I would have forgotten about it. (pp. 46–47)
Although Michele has a steady job with the bank, money is tight within the Cossati family, leaving little room for luxuries or new clothes. To supplement her husband’s income, Valeria works in an office – a responsible job that her old-fashioned mother frowns upon and belittles. This role, alongside all her domestic chores, leaves Valeria with virtually no time to herself. She must snatch precious moments here and there, often staying up late at night to document her thoughts in secret. In short, Valeria lives in constant fear that her notebook will be discovered, exposing her innermost feelings and transgressions. This relationship between secrecy and the risk of exposure invests the novel with a sense of tension as the narrative unfolds. Nevertheless, Valeria feels compelled to maintain the notebook, almost as a way of writing herself into existence.
As the diary entries build up, we see how Valeria has been defined by the familial roles assigned to her. In the eyes of her family, Valeria is seen purely as a daughter, a wife and a mother rather than an individual in her own right – even Michele calls her ‘Mamma’, never ‘Valeria’. More galling still is the implicit assumption that Valeria will simply stay at home to look after the baby when Riccardo’s insipid fiancé, Marina, falls pregnant – with absolutely no regard for Valeria’s own wishes or ambitions. In short, her identity has been subsumed by the family’s requirements – the very thought that she might want a life or some privacy of her own is mocked by those around her, cruelly devaluing her existence outside the domestic sphere.
Gradually the focus of the notebook entries shifts, illuminating Valeria’s frustrations with Michele. There is a realisation that she and Michele are no longer the people they once were when they first met. The nature of their relationship has changed over time, with intimacy giving way to familiarity and domesticity – the regular routines of day-to-day family life.
I wonder if, now, I’d know how to talk to him, tell him the many things I think about. Things that are mine and not ours, as at the time of our marriage, and that we’ve pretended, with our silence, still are. Often, in other words, I wonder what the relations between Michele and me have been for years. (p. 201)
Moreover, Valeria begins to question her own moral values – the codes she learned from childhood and the cues signalled by her husband. There’s an acute sense of destabilisation here, a kind of loosening or unmooring of the foundations of her world.
I’ve never had my own ideas; up till now I’ve leaned on a morality learned as a child or on what my husband said. I no longer seem to know where good is and where evil is, I no longer understand those around me, and so what I thought was solid in me loses substance as well. (p. 153)
With no room of her own at home, Valeria finds sanctuary at the office, going there on Saturday afternoons as an escape from her family. During these visits, she encounters her boss, a gentle, attentive man who is equally constrained by the demands of life at home. As her relationship with this soulmate deepens in intimacy, Valeria must decide where her loyalties lie – to her family and their endless requirements or to her own yearnings and desires…
Every time I open this notebook the anxieties I felt when I began to write in it return to mind. I was assailed by regrets that poisoned my day. I was always afraid that the notebook would be discovered, even if at the time it contained nothing that could be considered shameful. But now it’s different. In it I’ve recorded the chronicle of these last days, the way in which I’ve gradually let myself be drawn into acts that I condemn and yet which, like this notebook, I seem unable to do without. (p. 189)
In short, while Valeria experiences a gradual reawakening of her own yearnings, she is also consumed by guilt – torn between a compulsion to capture her deepest desires in the notebook and a fear of undermining everything she has built with Michele and the children over the past twenty years.
So, to summarise, Forbidden Notebook is a startling, exquisitely-written confessional – an illuminating exploration of a woman’s right to her own existence in the face of competing demands. It’s also a fascinating insight into women’s lives in post-war Italian society as the traditional gender roles of the past were being challenged by the desires for freedom and modernity. One of the most compelling aspects of this novel is just how candid and honest it feels, especially for a book first published in the 1950s. There’s an emotional richness to Valeria’s diary entries, an openness and truthfulness that will likely resonate with many readers, especially fans of Natalia Ginzburg, Anna Maria Ortese and Elena Ferrante.
As you’ve probable gathered by now, I absolutely adored this one and look forward to reading more by Alba de Céspedes in the future. Luckily, Pushkin Press plan to reissue another couple of her books over the next year or two, which is excellent news for lovers of women writers. (My thanks to the publishers and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a review copy.)
The British-born writer, and biographer Iris Origo is perhaps best known for War in Val d’Orcia: An Italian War Diary, 1943–1944 – a remarkable account of the impact of WW2 on a small rural community in Tuscany, published in 1947 to great success. Prior to this, Origo kept another diary, a private record of developments leading up to Italy’s entry into the war in 1940. This earlier journal — A Chill in the Air — covers the period from March 1939 to July 1940, ending with the birth of Origo’s second child, Benedetta.
First published in 2017, long after the author’s death, A Chill in the Air is a truly fascinating text, an intelligent, clear-eyed account of Origo’s reading of political and diplomatic events across Europe from her viewpoint in Italy. While her overriding aim was to document events as simply and truthfully as possible, Origo also captures the prevailing moods of the various circles she moves in, giving the text a richness and vitality that really brings it to life.
Origo herself was supremely well-connected. Born to a British mother from the aristocracy and a wealthy American father, Origo spent much of her childhood living a life of privilege in the Italian town of Fiesole. In her early twenties she marries the Italian, Antonio Origo, also from aristocratic stock, and together they buy a dilapidated Tuscan estate, La Foce, which they restore over the next ten years. Following periods of foreign travel and separation from Antonio, partly prompted by the tragic death of the couple’s young son in 1933, Iris returns to Italy in 1938, ready to re-engage with her marriage and the continued development of La Foce. And it is here on the estate that she writes most of her diary, with occasional entries from trips to Florence and Rome.
With her godfather, William Phillips, working as the American Ambassador in Rome, Origo has connections to the innermost political and diplomatic circles – a position that offers an insight into Mussolini’s strategy and intentions. Nevertheless, Origo does not restrict her interests to the privileged classes; she is also in touch with plenty of ordinary Italians, people from all walks of everyday life, from farm workers and peasants to governesses and typists. In short, this multifaceted network of connections gives Origo’s diary a fascinating range of perspectives – it is, in effect, a combination of hypotheses, rumours and news reports (sometimes fake, sometimes genuine), all filtered and analysed by Origo in her characteristically perceptive style. Moreover, she casts her net as widely as possible, encompassing newspaper reports and radio broadcasts from a range of sources including the Italian, British and French press, with occasional bulletins from Germany, too.
A consummate observer with a sharp eye for detail, Origo is especially alert to the authorities’ widespread use of damaging propaganda at various points in the campaign. From an early stage, the possibility of war is ‘positioned’ to the people as a means of redistributing colonies and wealth, a battle between the rich and the poor in the name of Fascist revolution.
It is now clear what form propaganda, in case of war, will take. The whole problem will be presented as an economic one. The “democratic countries”, i.e., the “haves”, will be presented as permanently blocking the way of the “have-nots” to economic expansion. Germany and Italy must fight or submit to suffocation. (p. 31)
Furthermore, the propaganda extends to trying to convince the general public that the Fascist countries are interested in ‘peace and justice’ rather than war. ‘The real warmongers and alarmists are on the other side.’ Therefore, if war does break out, people will be led to believe it is the democracies who are responsible for the conflict – the Fascist countries will have been forced to act in self-defence, ostensibly as a means of ‘safeguarding’ the peace in Europe.
At first, there is little appetite amongst the Italians for war. The majority seem to believe that Mussolini, whom they have trusted for years, will not lead the country into battle. He will find a way of keeping Italy out of it, irrespective of developments elsewhere. Nevertheless, by August 1939, the picture feels a little different. While educated Italians remain anxious about the possibility of war, the general impression among the broader population is that a lull in the proceedings has descended, prompted by a blinkered faith in Mussolini’s abilities.
But it isn’t exactly calm. It is a mixture of passive fatalism, and of a genuine faith in their leader: the fruits of fifteen years of being taught not to think. It is certainly not a readiness for war, but merely a blind belief that, “somehow”, it won’t happen. (p. 72)
Origo is particularly adept at capturing the mood of the people she encounters at various points from March 1939 to July 1940. By October 1939, the atmosphere in Florence is menacing and unsettling. Fear and suspicion are rife, to the point where even the newspaper one is seen reading can lead to warnings, animosity or suspicious looks from others. As the months slip by, the fear and uncertainty mounts as the Duce moves closer to the Germans, and the prospect of Italy’s entry into the war looms large on the horizon. In effect, it appears as if Italy is moving ‘from one absurdity to another’, a falsification of its position by furthering a ‘forced alliance with Germany’ – with the possibility of Italians being called upon to fight on the side of a regime they despise.
Alongside the major political and diplomatic developments of the day, the diaries are peppered with illustrations of the impact of events on people from various walks of life.
One young woman, who is just expecting her first baby, prays daily that it will be a girl. “What’s the use of having boys if they’ll take them away from me and kill them? (p. 29)
We learn of a governess, a native of Alsace-Lorraine, who finds herself deemed ‘an enemy alien’ for the second time in her life, simply because of her nationality. Now she has been told by the authorities to leave Italy, with little money and no family to turn to. Just one of many innocent casualties, caught up in the turmoil of the approaching war.
The announcement of Italy’s entry into war is brilliantly captured by Origo – a strained, hoarse Mussolini, speaking from Rome’s Piazza Venezia, prompts little emotion from the farm workers at La Foce – a defence mechanism, perhaps, as is the stoic labourers’ way.
I look again at the listening faces. They wear the blank, closed look that is the peasant’s defence. Impossible to tell how much they have taken in or what they feel – except that it is not enthusiasm. (pp. 151-152)
In summary, then, A Chill in the Air is a truly fascinating book, a remarkably insightful account of a country’s inexorable slide into war. With her links to a wide network of individuals in various key positions, Origo has few illusions about the wisdom (or otherwise) of events unfolding around her – a sharpness that really comes through in the text. My NYRB Classics edition comes with an excellent introduction by the historian and writer Lucy Hughes-Hallett and an equally illuminating afterword by Origo’s granddaughter, the journalist and translator Katia Lysy – both of which position the book in the broader context of Origo’s life. Very highly recommended indeed. (This is my first review for Karen and Lizzie’s #ReadIndies event, more details here.)
I have written before about my love of Natalia Ginzburg’s fiction – most recently, All Our Yesterdays, a rich, multilayered novel of family life spanning the duration of WW2. The Little Virtues is a volume of Ginzburg’s essays, and what a marvellous collection it is – erudite, intelligent and full of the wisdom of life. Ginzburg wrote these pieces individually between 1944 and 1962, and many were published in Italian journals before being collected here. In her characteristically lucid prose, Ginzburg writes of families and friendships, of virtues and parenthood, and of writing and relationships. I adored this beautiful, luminous collection of essays, a certainty for my end-of-year highlights even though we’re only in January – it really is that good.
In the opening essay, ‘Winter in the Abruzzi’ (1944), Ginzburg describes the time she and her family spent living in exile in a village in Abruzzo during the Second World War. It’s a poignant, melancholy piece, particularly given what happens to Natalia’s husband, Leone – a Jewish anti-fascist activist – at the hands of the authorities.
There is a kind of uniform monotony in the fate of man. Our lives unfold according to ancient, unchangeable laws, according to an invariable and ancient rhythm. Our dreams are never realised and as soon as we see them betrayed we realise that the intensest joys of our life have nothing to do with reality. No sooner do we see them betrayed than we are consumed with regret for the time when they glowed within us. And in this succession of hopes and regrets our life slips by. (pp. 12–13)
This palpable sense of melancholy is carried through to ‘Portrait of a Friend’ (1957) as Ginzburg reflects on her home city, the city of her youth, a place haunted by ‘memories and shadows’. Here she likens the area to an old friend, a poet who is now deceased.
Written in the immediate aftermath of war, ‘The Son of Man’ (1946) develops these themes further, with Ginzburg conveying how her generation — effectively the fugitives of war — will never feel safe in their homes again, where a knock in the middle of the night will almost certainly instil fear in the soul. In essence, the war has exposed a brutal truth, the darkest, ugliest sides of humanity in all their horror and cruelty. There’s a sense that the young have had to find a new strength or toughness to face the realities of life, something different from the previous generation – and hopefully the one to come. It’s a mindset that has led to a gulf between Ginzburg’s generation and that of her parents, especially in their respective approaches to parenthood.
They would like our children to play with woolly toys in pretty pink rooms with little trees and rabbits painted on the walls. They would like us to surround their infancy with veils and lies, and carefully hide the truth of things from them. But we cannot do this. We cannot do this to children whom we have woken in the middle of the night and tremblingly dressed in the darkness so that we could flee with them or hide them… (p. 83)
In ‘England: Eulogy and Lament’ (1961), the author relays her impressions of England and its people – a nation whose characteristics she documents with the directness of an outsider.
To Ginzburg, England is a civilised country, well governed and organised, serious and conventional, gloomy and dull, with occasional glimpses of beauty amid a largely homogenous environment. Many of these qualities are reflected in how the English dress – a style showing little imagination or individuality with the majority dressing alike. For women, the norm seems to be ‘beige or transparent plastic raincoats which look like shower curtains or tablecloths’, while businessmen opt for pinstripe trousers and black bowler hats. Moreover, Ginzburg is adept at capturing the demeanour of the English, how in conversation, they tend to stick to the superficialities of life (such as the weather and other banalities) to avoid causing others offence.
I couldn’t help but raise an ironic eyebrow at some Of Ginzburg’s observations about England’s principles. Oh, how this country has changed from the version portrayed here – in some areas for the better, in others for the worse!
It [England] is a country which has always shown itself ready to welcome foreigners, from very diverse communities, without I think oppressing them. (p. 36)
In ‘My Vocation’ (1949), one of my favourite pieces in this collection, Ginzburg traces her approach to writing over the arc of her creative life, from composing juvenile poems and stories in childhood to her maturity as a writer of the female experience in adulthood. It’s a fascinating piece detailing how her relationship with writing has changed through adolescence, marriage and motherhood. This beautiful, thoughtful essay also captures how the tenor of Ginzburg’s work is affected by her mood, especially the balance between her use of memory vs imagination.
When we are happy our imagination is stronger; when we are unhappy our memory works with greater vitality. Suffering makes the imagination weak and lazy; it moves, but unwillingly and heavily, with the weak movements of someone who is ill… (p.104)
Here, along with several other articles in this collection, we get the sense Ginzburg approaches her subjects obliquely or at an angle. In short, by writing about one aspect of a topic, she triggers reverberations elsewhere – like an echo reverberating around the landscape or stone skimming across a pond – adding a broader resonance to her insights beyond their immediate sphere.
‘Human Relationships’ (1953) is another piece that follows a timeline, tracing the nature of our relationships with others from childhood and adolescence to adulthood and parenthood. Ginzburg is adept at capturing how the subtleties of our interactions change as we move through each of these phases. As our values, needs and priorities shift, so do our thoughts and emotions, frequently manifesting themselves in our attachments to others. While all stages are brilliantly conveyed, Ginzburg writes especially well about the mysteries of the adult world from a child’s point of view, highlighting the joys and anxieties that consume us at this age. In addition, her reflections on finding a life partner in adulthood are just as insightful and beautifully expressed.
After many years, only after many years, after a thick web of habits, memories and violent differences has been woven between us, we at last realise that he is, in truth, the right person for us, that we could not have put up with anyone else, that it is only from him that we can ask everything that the heart needs. (p. 141)
Central to some of these essays are our relationships with others. In ‘He and I’ (1962), Ginzburg describes the relationship with her partner in terms of their many differences, from their personalities and character traits to their interests and pursuits. It’s a beautifully written piece, tinged with touches of poignancy, especially towards the end.
Finally, in the titular essay from 1960, Ginzburg sets out her approach to parenthood, arguing that we should put more weight behind the ‘great virtues’ of life, several of which spring from instinct, and less on the ‘little virtues’, typically born from a defensive spirit of self-preservation.
As far as the education of children is concerned I think they should be taught not the little virtues but the great ones. Not thrift but generosity and an indifference to money; not caution but courage and a contempt for danger; nor shrewdness but frankness and a love of truth; not tact but love for one’s neighbour and self-denial; not a desire for success but a desire to be and to know. (p. 151)
Moreover, she argues that by focusing too much on the little virtues, parents are in danger of fostering a sense of ‘cynicism or fear of life’ amongst their children, particularly if the great virtues are missing or downplayed.
While we might not necessarily agree with everything Ginzburg sets out in her essays, there is no denying her commitment to these principles and the reasoning behind them. There is so much wisdom and intelligence to be found in these pieces. A fascinating collection to savour and revisit, a keeper for the bedside table as a balm for the soul.
The Little Virtues is published by Daunt Books; my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.
In 2020, the Italian-born editor and writer Thea Lenarduzzi won the Fitzcarraldo Editions Essay Prize with her proposal for Dandelions, a gorgeous, meditative blend of family memoir, political and socioeconomic history, and personal reflections on migration between Italy and the UK. The book has now been published in full, and it’s a thoroughly captivating read. Elegant, thoughtful and exquisitely written, Dandelions spans four generations of Lenarduzzi’s family, partly crafted from discussions between Thea and her paternal grandmother, Dirce (aka ‘Nonna’). This beautiful meditation touches on so many of my favourite themes – family stories, memory, identity, belonging, migration, displacement, loss, grief, language and regional culture – all set against the fascinating backdrop of a time of great sociopolitical change.
The book begins with one of Thea’s prevailing images of Nonna, picking dandelions to accompany the family’s dinner – bobbing and weaving “between the flowers’ perky heads, dotted like asterisks on a densely annotated page.” The setting is 1950s Manchester – home to Dirce, her husband Leo, their two children, Manlio and John, and Dirce’s mother, Novella. From this springboard, the book moves backwards and forwards in time – and between Italy and England – threading together various stories and vignettes that span the 20th century. In doing so, a multilayered portrayal of Thea’s family emerges, placed in the context of Italy’s sociopolitical history and economic challenges.
The dandelion motif, which we see in these opening passages, recurs throughout the book as a metaphor for several aspects of the family’s story – from the way the seeds travel from one place to another, aided by the wind, to the plant’s ability to take root and grow pretty much anywhere, irrespective of circumstances. There’s also a sense of time passing through the generations, with each seed being a descendent of the ‘parent’ flower and the beginnings of the one to come. (The prose is superb throughout.)
Each seed, white and wandering, is a ghost of the flower that once was, and an apparition of the flower to come, looking for a place of rest. (p. 15)
The dandelion’s tenacious nature and its role in healing and medicine are significant too, adding further layers to the plant’s relevance as a title for the book.
Natalia Ginzburg’s novel-cum-memoir Family Lexicon is clearly a touchstone for Thea – a text in which well-worn tales and phrases become triggers for specific memories, passed through the generations entwined with identity.
Experience becomes language becomes story becomes identity… (p. 13)
Central to Dandelions are the various stories of migration (some successful, others less so) – many featuring Dirce, now ninety-five and living in Campagna, Italy. So, it’s rather appropriate that the name ‘Dirce’ has two roots: ‘cleft’ and ‘dual’, especially for a woman who feels she has lived two lives – one in Italy, the other in England.
We hear of Leo’s persistent and touching courtship of young Dirce, initially frowned upon by Novella, and the couple’s marriage and move from Italy to England in the early 1950s, mostly for its opportunities. Then there are Dirce’s jobs as a seamstress, which Thea captures as a series of trends, from ‘thequick-fire cushion-cover years’ to ‘the little-goes-a-long way hot pants years’.
Hardship is a vital part of the narrative, too – money is scarce, and Dirce’s health suffers due to overwork, poor diet and stress. A breakdown prompts a three-month recovery in Italy, but Dirce returns a new woman, ready to face the challenges ahead.
During their time in England, the family experiences the same things again and again: love, gaiety, acts of kindness, trust, superstition, hope, disappointment, homesickness, loss, hardship, prejudice, anxiety and fear. While the context and magnitude vary, the underlying emotions remain the same. And as Thea sets these stories alongside one another, we begin to see how they link together, forming a richly-textured portrait of family life.
In 1971, Leo, Dirce and their adopted daughter, Lucia, move back to Italy, prompted by Leo’s desire to build a house in his homeland in Campagna, much to Dirce’s initial reluctance. Nevertheless, there’s a lovely vignette here, a story of Leo returning to Dirce’s old house in Maniago to take cuttings from her father’s old grapevines – now wild but still strong. An intermingling of the families and generations duly results.
He [Leo] will plant these old vines among the new ones, alongside the roses and the dandelions, and, in time, create a blend that belongs to this family alone – the taste of two families, in fact, with all their stories combined – nurtured by the soil and the air he knows they have always belonged in, really. (p. 166)
Significant time is also devoted to Dirce’s parents, Angelo and Novella, and their move from the family’s home in Maniago Libero in Friuli, north-eastern Italy, to Manchester and Sheffield when Friuli’s steel industry died away. One of the things Dandelions captures so well is how the process of delving into her family’s past raises further crucial questions for Thea to consider.
When he [Angelo] took his young family to England in 1935, did he feel like things were opening up, getting better, or did he feel cornered, as if the choice to go were only an illusion? Did he tell his wife Novella that everything was going to be fine – you’ll see – and did he believe it himself? […] Did he feel in control of his own situation? (p. 81)
Moreover, given the political situation in Italy and the need for people to toe the line, Thea wonders whether Angelo harboured any fascist sympathies. There is no direct evidence to indicate so, and Dirce is careful to brush any suggestions aside. But if this were the case, would Thea still wish to tell his story and associate it so closely with her own?
The book also touches on Dirce’s grief for the loss of her father, who died shortly after the move to England, prompting Novella’s return to Friuli with the remaining family. Dirce was nine when her father, Angelo, passed away in 1935 – a life-changing event that led to subsequent losses as her childhood and the chance of a proper education slipped away.
The one person Dirce is reluctant to discuss is her mother, Novella, whose legacy still casts a discernible shadow some forty years after her death.
In the story Nonna tells about her own life, Novella is less a person than the aftermath of a person, more atmosphere than flesh and blood. She is absence accumulated to form a presence. (p. 183)
Through little glimpses here and there, Novella emerges a woman who bore grievances and misfortunes very heavily, primed to see the worst in people and situations in place of virtues and light.
She wore calamities like rosettes and regularly presented them to her daughter one by one, each narrated with vivid feeling as though the events had just occurred. (pp. 191-192)
The story of Thea’s parents, and their move from England to Italy in the early ‘80s, is beautifully told. By comparison to those of the previous two generations, it’s a journey of relative ease, excitement and contentment – more optimistic and brighter in tone.
Thea also writes movingly of her own fractured sense of belonging, her dual citizenship and ‘hyphenated identity’ – not quite English enough to call herself English but not Italian enough for the opposite to apply either. Consequently, she ‘feels’ different in each country, which manifests itself in her everyday behaviour.
Emigration splits the individual, too. I am a different version of myself in Italy to the one I am in England. I’m not sure how discernible it is to others, but I feel it in my bones, in my skin, in the way I hold myself and speak to people. In Italy, I am quieter, more timid and awkward. (p. 94)
As Dandelions draws to a close, Thea comes to a realisation about her family and their stories – and perhaps, her reasons for embarking on this quest. It feels like a fitting place for me to finish my account of a book I absolutely adored. A beguiling combination of the personal and sociopolitical – and the stories we tell to live.
I thought, in short, that my dead needed me to remember them and tell their stories, to try to work out who they were and what challenges they faced. Really, it is I who needs them. (p. 281)
Dandelions is published in the UK by Fitzcarraldo Editions; my thanks to the publishers and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a review copy.
JacquiWine's Journal 