Her Side of the Story by Alba de Céspedes (tr. Jill Foulston)

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.)

Katalin Street by Magda Szabó (tr. Len Rix)

A year ago, I read Iza’s Ballad, an excellent novel by the critically-acclaimed Hungarian writer Magda Szabó. First published in Hungary in 1963, Ballad explores the frustrations and heartbreak between a mother and her daughter, two very different women with contrasting ideals. Among other things, the story exposes the damage we inflict on those closest to us, sometimes unintentionally. It’s a theme that also feels relevant to Katalin Street, another poignant story of complex family relationships, although in this instance much of the trauma stems from war.

This novel, which came later in 1969, focuses on three middle-class Hungarian families living in adjacent houses in Budapest’s Katalin Street: Mr and Mrs Elekes and their two daughters, the dutiful, clever Irén, and the younger, wilder Blanka; Major Biró, his housekeeper, Mrs Temes, and his son, Bálint; and finally, the Jewish dentist Mr Held, his wife Mrs Held, and their amiable daughter, Henriette.

Szabó has given her novel a very interesting structure, showing us key moments in the families’ lives from the mid-1930s to the late-1960s, opening with an initial section on where these characters have ended up. Here we find the Elekes crammed into a flat in a soulless apartment block on the Danube’s left bank, directly opposite their old home in Katalin Street, which they can see across the river.

As the story unfolds, we begin to see how their lives have been impacted over the years. Former headmaster, Mr Elekes – a man of strong moral standing – is losing his sight; moreover, political forces across Europe and events closer to home have undermined his previously solid beliefs in decency and integrity. Mrs Elekes too seems a shadow of her former self, yearning for her old furniture and possessions, many of which were shed during the move from Katalin Street. Her youngest daughter, Blanka, is another painful loss, currently living in Greece in exile from her family, the reasons for her banishment are merely hinted at initially but ultimately become clear in the second part of the book.

No work of literature, and no doctor, had prepared the former residents of Katalin Street for the fierce light that old age would bring to bear on the shadowy, barely sensed corridor down which they had walked in the earlier decades of their lives, or the way it would rearrange their memories and their fears, overturning their earlier moral judgements and system of values. […] no one had told them that the most frightening thing of all about the loss of youth is not what is taken away but what is granted in exchange. Not wisdom. Not serenity. Not sound judgement or tranquillity. Only the awareness of universal disintegration. (pp. 1-2)

The Elekes’ eldest daughter, Irén, still lives with her parents. Now a successful teacher herself, Irén has a young daughter, Kinga, but her emotional life is complex with ties to two men – Kinga’s father, a dependable engineer named Pali, and her childhood sweetheart, Bálint, who also seems to be living in the Elekes’ flat. Hovering over all of this is the ghostly presence of Henriette, the Helds’ gentle daughter who died during the war. Several chapters in the narrative show us events from Henriette’s perspective, adding another layer to an already intricate structure.

Following this opening section, which is entitled ‘Places’, Szabó moves back in time, showing us events at six milestones from 1934 to 1968, with a significant chunk devoted to 1944, a pivotal period in the families’ histories. The focus is on the younger generation of each of the three families – more specifically, Irén and Blanka, who as young girls play with Bálint Biró (the oldest of the four children) and Henriette Held (the youngest).

Over the course of these thirty-four years, there are childhood games and celebrations – but there are also deaths and deportations, lies and betrayals, imprisonments and banishments, much of the trauma stemming from the consequences of war. By tracing the dynamics affecting these families, Szabó weaves a compelling combination of the personal and the political, encompassing the interwar years, WW2 and the rise of Communism under the Soviets in the post-war years. Those who have survived the war are struggling in a strange state of unreality, indelibly altered by the ravages of the past. The gap between the lives these individuals once imagined for themselves and the cards fate has dealt them is devastating – too deep and ruinous to be bridged.

My [Irén’s] thoughts often went back to that moment, just as they did to the sight of Mrs. Temes coming into the bedroom carrying a tray, a strong, laughing, ever-cheerful, and reassuring figure. The Mrs. Temes I know today is very different—tearful and timid, her face empty, watchful, or lit up with greed. I didn’t know then that some people die long before their real death. Nor did I imagine that the last time you saw them might also be the last time they were truly alive. (p. 87)

As in Iza’s Ballad, the characterisation is excellent; all the key figures feel fully fleshed-out, painted in nuanced shades of grey, each with their own beliefs, values, flaws and complexities – their own forms of inner turmoil. Despite her orderly, sensible nature, Irén is prone to jealousy, a trait that taints her relationship with Bálint, just at the time when they ought to be at their happiest. Blanka, on the other hand, has a malicious streak, fabricating lies that prove damaging to Bálint’s medical career at the city’s hospital. Even Bálint has his faults, lapsing into self-loathing, weighed down by the burden of guilt – the circumstances of Henriette’s death proving pivotal here.

In summary, then, Katalin Street is a complex, layered book, an absorbing combination of the personal and the political, highlighting how the destruction of war can tear families apart. It’s a more challenging read than Iza’s Ballad, but ultimately very rewarding for patient readers.   

Katalin Street is published by NYRB Classics; personal copy.

The Glass Pearls by Emeric Pressburger

The Hungarian émigré Emeric Pressburger is, of course, best known as one half of the legendary filmmaking partnership Powell and Pressburger, whose iconic films are currently the subject of a major retrospective at the BFI. (Those of you who follow me on social media will know of my love for this duo’s work, from the charm and romanticism of I Know Where I’m Going! to the lush headiness and repressed desires of Black Narcissus.)

As the screenwriter in the partnership, Pressburger was known for his nuanced portrayals of complex characters, and these qualities flowed through to The Glass Pearls, one of two novels he wrote after parting company with Powell in the late 1950s. Having worked in the film industry in Berlin before fleeing Germany in 1933, Pressburger retained an affinity for the German people, recognising their humanity despite the heinous political regime sweeping the nation. These sensibilities can be seen in some of the duo’s wartime films, especially 49^th Parallel and The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, where German figures are depicted in shades of grey, not the stereotypical black portrayed in other propaganda films at the time. I mention this because it’s valuable background to The Glass Pearls, a brilliant, utterly gripping novel with a morally ambiguous German at its heart.

Central to the novel, which is set in the mid-1960s, is Karl Braun, a cultured, mild-mannered German émigré working as a piano tuner in London. When the story opens, Braun has just moved into new lodgings in Pimlico, where he meets fellow European emigres, the friendly wheeler-dealer Leslie Strohmayer and the quiet pharmacist Jaroslav Kolm. Having established this setting, Pressburger shows us Braun going about his quiet, respectable life, courting Helen – a young mother separated from her husband – largely by attending concerts and other cultural activities that deepen her appreciation of the arts.

On the surface, Braun’s work colleagues and fellow lodgers assume their friend came to England to escape the Nazis. However, the more we read, the more we realise that Pressburger’s protagonist is haunted by his past. His wife and child perished in an Allied bombing raid over Hamburg – a tragic incident that might well have killed Braun himself had he not rushed to work that day to attend to pressing business. Soon, other more sinister details emerge, creating the impression that Braun is in hiding from something – or possibly someone – with a link to his past. He constantly checks himself when probed about his background, carefully sticking to his story of a spell spent in Paris, mindful of not mentioning things that might reveal his identity.

‘Have you ever had any children?’

He almost told her. He checked himself just in time. Nothing is more inviting to disclose your secrets than to be told by others of their own. Hein used to lecture him: ‘When somebody is asking you straight questions, it’s easy to be on your guard. But when somebody is telling you his own life story, that’s the time to watch your tongue.’

‘No,’ he said. (p. 53)

By the end of the first chapter, it becomes clear that Braun used to work as a brain surgeon in a hospital attached to a Nazi concentration camp. As such, he is now wanted for war crimes, having carried out gruesome experiments on some of the camp’s inmates. With his overactive imagination, Braun treats almost everyone he meets as a potential spy, sent by the war crimes commissions to ferret him out of hiding, ready and waiting for any slip.

They could get Kolm to spy on him because of his hatred for anything connected with the Third Reich. Strohmayer would do it for money. They were offering 10,000 marks – nine hundred and ten pounds! Strohmayer had never seen that much money in his whole life. He would probably denounce his own brother for ninety pounds and he would inform on anybody for nine. (p. 81)

As the narrative unfolds, Braun’s paranoia increases, threatening to destabilise his life and everything he has sought to protect. In a scene worthy of a Hitchcock film, our protagonist descends into a vortex of fear and hallucination, a state heightened by the frenzied atmosphere of a dance club during a night out with Helen.  

He couldn’t stand it any longer. He used to think that he had surrounded himself with a strong armour. For years he had toiled to harden this armour, until he believed it to be impregnable. Now, in his ears, the bombs were falling and he realized that no tempered steel and no thickness of reinforced concrete would withstand direct hits. The jukebox screamed, the women screamed, the babies screamed, and he passed out. (p. 110)

As the narrative unfolds, this quiet story of an ordinary émigré trying to make his way in 1960s London morphs into a noirish thriller, the tension escalating with every turn of the page. What Pressburger does so brilliantly here is to present Braun as a likeable, humane character from the start, so much so that the reader cannot help but feel sympathetic towards him. We sense his grief over the loss of his family, his loneliness in a foreign country and yearning for female companionship. This cultured mild-mannered piano tuner seems a world away from the infamous doctor conducting gruesome brain surgery in the Nazi camps; nevertheless, as more of Braun’s past actions are revealed, the reader must grapple with the moral complexities at the novel’s heart.

Who is a “criminal”? What is “duty”? If the majority of the people elect a government and a leader, this elected government, this elected leader, are the proper authorities to define where the citizens’ duty lies. You have got to obey, or you are an enemy of the state with the obvious consequences. Now assume: a few years later the government is defeated – they all are, sooner or later – you’re told you shouldn’t have obeyed them. What you did was not “doing your duty” but you have committed a crime for which you’ll be hounded and, if caught, tried like a criminal […] If the accused here is a criminal, so are we all. (p. 16)

With the novel racing towards its conclusion, the reader is torn between hoping Braun will evade his pursuers and knowing he deserves to be caught. The ending, when it comes, is gripping and shocking, investing the story with a note of poignancy the protagonist has earned. In some respects, we come to realise that Braun – or Dr Reitmüller as he was back then – believed his brain research was furthering the cause of scientific progress, failing to appreciate his part in the murderous Nazi machine.

It’s a complex, deeply unnerving read, even more so when we learn that Pressburger’s mother and other family members perished at Auschwitz. As the author’s grandson Kevin Macdonald – a highly respected filmmaker in his own right – notes in his excellent afterword to the book, Pressburger went as far as reflecting some of his own traits and cultural interests in Braun, making him a kind of darker alter-ego, an expression perhaps of survivor’s guilt. (Throughout his life, Pressburger was haunted by deep-seated regrets for not having brought his mother to England while he still could.)

When The Glass Pearls was first published in 1966, it sank virtually without a trace, a poor review in the TLS quickly sealing its fate. With the benefit of hindsight, it’s possible to see why this fascinating novel bombed. Britain was still recovering from the traumas of war, the brutality of German atrocities still raw in many people’s minds – as such, critics and the general public were perhaps less willing to accept nuanced portrayals of complex, morally ambiguous characters than they are today.

Nevertheless, almost sixty years later, it’s great to see this remarkable novel back in print, particularly as part of the wonderful Faber Editions series, an imprint that consistently delivers the goods. All we need now is a film adaptation, ideally directed by Kevin Macdonald, a fervent champion of his grandfather’s legacy. As one might expect from a screenwriter of Pressburger’s calibre, this gripping story is conveyed in an evocative, cinematic manner, full of visual details and memorable scenes. I for one would love to see it on the big screen!

Lord Jim at Home by Dinah Brooke

There’s a scene in Lord Jim at Home where a man meets a horrific death at sea. We are deep in the midst of WW2, and Giles Trenchard, the main protagonist of Brooke’s novel, has joined the Navy as an Ordinary Seaman. His ship, the Patusan, is under fire from a pair of Japanese destroyers, and the galley has been hit. As Price, one of Giles’ shipmates, tries to reload a torpedo, he is sliced in two at the groin by an enemy shell – the force of which carries the top half of his body over the rail, splashing ‘into the sea for a nice swim’. His legs, on the other hand, remain on deck, held together purely by the trousers as his limbs fold at the knees. It’s a gruesome scene, and yet there’s something mordantly funny about it too, typified by the cartoonish image Brooke plants in the reader’s mind. This tension between the cruelly grotesque and savagely comic is vital to the success of this book. It is by turns witty, merciless, shocking, and repulsive, but the sparkling quality of Brooke’s prose and the singular nature of her vision carry the reader through.

First published in 1973 and recently reissued by the ever-reliable publishing arm of Daunt Books, Lord Jim at Home is an unflinching coming-of-age story, rooted in the brutality of the privileged upper classes. Born in the interwar years, Giles Trenchard is the eldest son of Austin Trenchard, a powerful, austere solicitor and his wife, Alice. The Trenchards live in Cornwall, and Brooke emphasises the mythic, fable-like quality of her story by referring to Giles as ‘the Prince’ while his parents are termed ‘the King’ and ‘the Queen’. Nevertheless, this is a fairy tale of the darkest kind – pitch-black and unyielding like a piece of polished jet.

Bullied and disdained by his father and cruelly neglected by his mother, Giles is starved of love and affection – an abandonment exacerbated by the chilly atmosphere of the nursery, presided over by an abusive nanny who locks Giles in a cupboard by day and straps him down in bed at night.

A child should be quiet and malleable. He should have no desires. He should have no will. (p.12)

Mealtimes are especially torturous affairs as the nurse seeks to exert her control over the impressionable infant Prince. In a scene reminiscent of Edward St Aubyn’s Patrick Melrose novels, the nurse grabs young Giles by the scruff of the neck and dangles him out of the nursery window when he fails to eat his lunch – a heinous combination of bitter spinach and congealed scrambled egg, the latter resembling vomit.

‘Do you want me to drop you? Will you eat your spinach?’ The friendly green lawn swings dizzily below him. There is a bush with yellow flowers growing against the house. It would be nice to dig in the flower bed. Perhaps find a snail or a worm. His legs and arms make tiny kicks in the air. A brightly speckled thrush swoops past him and picks a snail out of the flower bed and dashes it against a stone. (p. 40)

The stays are loosened somewhat when a new, kinder nurse arrives, but much of the damage has already been done, and Giles remains a failure in the eyes of his father. At nine, the Prince is packed off to boarding school, where he continues to disappoint, failing to learn anything despite repeated beatings – if anything, the boy seems impervious to them.

There are times when this novel reads like a vivid fever dream, accentuating the horrors that assail Giles as he tries to survive school, the days dragging on interminably with precious little relief. 

The awful, heavy, black intoxication of sleep, red with black scallops round the edges, like the wings of a butterfly. Rich smell of wood and ink. Ink tastes like blood when sucked from the pointed spoon of a relief nib. Careful not to prick your tongue. The air is thick with dust and heat and the droning of voices. There is no escape, no escape, no escape. (pp. 101–102)

When war intervenes, Giles joins the Navy as an Ordinary Seaman, a life that provides some semblance of purpose and acceptance in the ranks. As you’ll have gathered from my opening paragraph, Brooke doesn’t hold back on her descriptions of carnage at sea – the heat is stifling and putrid, the injuries brutal and swift.

Bodies lie like ghosts, confused at their own life, relieved by sleep. Behind each pair of closed and twitching eyelids, the battle roars and shrieks again. Men struggle endlessly through the same efforts. The images of the day, hard and bright, drag through their dreams like a loose end of film chattering through an empty spool. (p. 161)

But when the war ends, Giles is pitched into a kind of limbo. Back in England, he shuttles between London and Cornwall, repeatedly agreeing to study for his law exams – a condition of the boy’s allowance – only to fail them on multiple occasions. With little money coming in and a girlfriend to entertain, Giles resorts to ‘borrowing’ (aka stealing) money and jewellery from his mother to finance his lifestyle – a practice that lures him into trouble, precipitating the novel’s shocking but horribly believable dénouement.

Brooke has fun with touches of foreshadowing here and there, gently hinting at the horrors to come. At one point, Austin Trenchard imagines pushing his own father off a cliff in a wheelchair, an image that strikes an eerie resonance with the story’s ending. Moreover, there are occasional references to a courtroom scene and reflections from unnamed observers, seemingly commenting on Giles’ character and behaviour – this, for instance, from a fellow broader at school.  

‘There was nothing very noticeable about him.’ […] ‘But I do remember that he would often wake up in the night screaming, or cower into a corner of the room screaming, “Don’t hit me, don’t hit me,” when no one had threatened him at all.’ (p. 102)

All this suggests a judgement is on the horizon, a reckoning of sorts as the story builds to its conclusion. (Interestingly, there seems to be an ongoing preoccupation with aspects of law, order and justice in this book – I’ll be interested in any other observations on this.)

When the novel was first published in 1973, reviewers described it as ‘squalid and startling’, ‘nastily horrific’ and ‘a monstrous parody’ of the upper echelons of society. Fifty years on, the time feels right for a reappraisal. Bravo to Daunt Books and McNally Editions for bringing this unnerving, shocking, savagely funny novel back into print. It might not be to everyone’s taste, but I found it a fascinating and bracing read.  

A Different Sound: Stories by Mid-Century Women Writers

Compiled and introduced by the editor and literary critic Lucy Scholes, A Different Sound showcases a range of short stories by mid-20^th century women writers – an anthology so far up my street that it practically knocked on my door and invited itself in for tea…

Scholes’ choice of writers ranges from the familiar (Elizabeth Bowen, Elizabeth Taylor and Daphne du Maurier) to the lesser known (Attia Hosain, Frances Bellerby and Inez Holden). While others, such as Elizabeth Jane Howard, Penelope Mortimer and Stella Gibbons, are probably better known for novels than short fiction, their stories are excellent and do not disappoint. This is a terrific collection of pieces, enabling readers to reacquaint themselves with familiar favourites while also making some new discoveries. (As ever with these anthologies, I won’t try to cover every story included here; instead, my aim is to give you a flavour of the collection and a few overarching themes.)

Unsurprisingly, given the time period, war features in several of these stories, from Diana Gardner’s striking tale of The Land Girl, who cruelly takes her revenge on the family she is billeted with, to Sylvia Townsend Warner’s Scorched Earth Policy, in which an elderly couple push wartime measures to an extreme. But the most chilling example alludes to war in a metaphorical way, echoing aerial attacks during the Blitz and hinting at potential threats on the horizon, particularly from the Cold War brewing in the East…

In Daphne du Maurier’s terrifying story The Birds, farm worker Nat Hocken (still feeling the effects of an old injury from the war) must protect his family when the natural world hits back. After a long, mild autumn, the weather in Britain suddenly changes in early December when a bitter wind sweeps in from the East – a development Nat notices from his home on the south coast. For some reason, the dramatic change in weather unsettles all the birds, prompting thousands of different species – from blue tits and wrens to gulls and gannets – to flock together, patrolling the skies and attacking individuals on sight.

The birds were circling still, above the fields. Mostly herring gull, but the black-headed gull amongst them. Usually they kept apart. Now they were united. Some bond had brought them together.

It was the black-backed gull that attacked the smaller birds, and even new-born lambs, so he’d heard […] They were coming in towards the farm. They were circling lower in the sky, and the black-backed gulls were to the front, the black-backed gulls were leading. The farm, then, was their target. They were making for the farm. (p. 99)

As Nat struggles to seal up the house to protect his wife and children, the birds attack from every direction, pecking at windows, tearing at the door, trying to access the chimney, terrifying the family as they shelter in the kitchen. At first, the Hockens hope for help from the authorities, especially once a National Emergency is declared. However, it soon becomes clear that the general public are largely on their own, forced to take whatever measures they can to safeguard their loved ones. As Scholes rightly states in her perceptive introduction to the collection, The Birds ‘takes on a grim new relevance’ today in the age of environmental disasters linked to climate change. It’s an utterly chilling story in more ways than one.

There are wartime anxieties of a different kind in Stella Gibbons’ excellent story Listen to the Magnolias as a mature widow, Mrs Bestwick, fears the arrival of five American soldiers billeted to live in her house with its three spare bedrooms. Lying awake at night, Mrs B is assailed by a stream of worries. What will they eat? What could she talk to them about? Will she ever be able to use the bathroom again? And who will clean their boots? This is a lovely story with a hopeful end, one of several that challenges traditional clichés and stereotypes to surprising effect.  

In Elizabeth Jane Howard’s Three Miles Up, one of the standout pieces in this collection, a fractious holiday literally veers into unchartered territory when a mysterious but seemingly innocent young woman joins two men on their canal trip. The less said about this deliciously creepy story the better; it really is an unnerving treat!

The canal wound and wound, and the reeds grew not only thick on each bank, but in clumps across the canal. The light drained out of the sky into the water and slowly drowned there; the trees and the banks became heavy and black. (p. 199)

The tension also mounts in Penelope Mortimer’s masterful story The Skylight, in which much of the horror comes from the imagination – our visions (and those of the central character) as events unfold beyond our field of vision. I’ve already written about this one in my earlier review of Mortimer’s brilliant collection of short fiction, Saturday Lunch with the Brownings, but it’s lovely to revisit it here.

Similarly, you can find my thoughts on Elizabeth Taylor’s quietly devastating story The Thames Spread Out in my piece on her collection A Dedicated Man. When a middle-aged single woman, Rose, is marooned in her house by a flood, her lover unable to call due to the weather, she sees the emptiness of her life anew, prompting a reassessment and a new sense of purpose. Another excellent story, fully deserving of its inclusion here.

Perhaps the most interesting discovery for me is Attia Hosain’s The First Party, in which a shy Indian wife – newly married to a Western man – feels desperately uneasy in the company of her husband’s sophisticated friends. Surrounded by these liberated, scantily-clad creatures, all drinking heavily and dancing suggestively, the wife shrinks into her chair, ‘lonely in her strangeness yet dreading approach’.

The woman held a wineglass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She [the young wife] wondered how it felt to hold a cigarette with such self-confidence; to flick the ash with such assurance. The woman had long nails, pointed, and scarlet. She looked at her own—unpainted, cut carefully short—wondering how anyone could eat, work, wash with those claws dipped in blood. She drew her sari over her hands, covering her rings and bracelets, noticing the other’s bare wrists, like a widow’s (p. 180)

At first, the young wife is unnerved and bewildered by this alien behaviour. But as the party unfolds, these emotions are swiftly replaced by anger, disgust and defiance – a situation made all the worse by her husband’s insensitive response. As Scholes notes in her introduction, Hosain’s story is perhaps the most unexpectedly violent entry in this anthology, a warning of the damage that can be done when Western attitudes and behaviour are imposed on other cultures and traditions.

In summary, then, A Different Sound is an excellent, surprisingly varied collection of stories from familiar and lesser-known mid-century women writers. There is so much for readers to enjoy here, with many stories still feeling relevant today, echoing anxieties from the past, present and future in an increasingly uncertain world.  

A Different Sound is published by Pushkin Press; my thanks to the publishers / Independent Alliance for a review copy.

A Silence Shared by Lalla Romano (tr. Brian Robert Moore)

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.)

War in Val d’Orcia by Iris Origo

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.

A Chill in the Air by Iris Origo

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.)

The Little Virtues by Natalia Ginzburg (tr. Dick Davis)

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.

Clouds Over Paris by Felix Hartlaub (tr. Simon Beattie)

When I was casting around for something suitable to read for Lizzy’s German Lit Month, Clouds Over Paris (The Wartime Notebooks of Felix Hartlaub) caught my eye. It’s a series of vignettes and observations penned by the German-born historian and fledgling writer Felix Hartlaub, who was posted to Paris in 1940 as a researcher for the German Ministry of Foreign Affairs. During his time in the French capital, Hartlaub recorded his impressions of a city under occupation, frequently finding beauty amid the harsh realities of war. As such, Clouds Over Paris offers readers the opportunity to see the city through the eyes of an outsider, a man who felt somewhat uncomfortable about his presence as a German national.

Hartlaub’s style is wonderfully impressionistic (almost stream-of-consciousness in style), and the notebooks are full of evocative imagery, capturing the feel of a city under siege. With an artist’s eye for detail, he writes vividly of soldiers hanging out in cafés and bars, Parisians queuing for food at a butcher’s shop, and anglers fishing in the Seine, their wives desperately waiting to bag any catches. The night-time scenes are particularly atmospheric, with the eerie silence accentuating the sound of soldiers’ movements through the streets.

Blackout. There is an eleven o’clock curfew for Parisians. Only occupying forces are left on the streets, which are deathly quiet. Military boots, solitary or in groups, the odd civilian scooting past, the brim of his hat pulled down low. A breezy night, some big marauding clouds float past at a reasonable height, a burnt-brownish colour. In a patchy bank of cloud, scattered spots of moonlight. Further south, in the rough direction of the Dôme des Invalides, a searchlight shoots up, fixing on a low, ragged cloud, which appears to stop, stretching out paws anew.  The searchlight, cut off from the ground, dies away in a fraction of a second. (p. 59)

Something that comes across very strongly here is the sense of discomfort Hartlaub feels about his presence in the city. Unsurprisingly, he is met with suspicion by the French – as an outsider and an occupier, there is an air of isolation surrounding him as he goes about his day.

The icy ring of alienation and mistrust he has cast about him. He is firmly pinned down within it, his gestures winning no space, his words lacking the air to carry. […]

A couple in the neighbouring séparé, back-to-back with him. Muffled words into each other’s shoulders, the silence of long kisses. The couple leave, eyeing him as they go past, in his empty red mirrored compartment. He returns their gaze: benign, full of admiration, and at the same time veiled, not quite there. (pp. 36–37)

Journeys on the Métro only heighten this sense of unease, especially when Hartlaub is required to show his travel pass, the distinctive colouring of which clearly reveals his nationality. Interestingly though, he is equally uneasy in the company of German soldiers with whom he feels ‘no connection whatsoever’ as his eyes land on their epaulettes.

Alongside the fragments of encounters between soldiers and various ladies of the nights, there are some marvellously evocative descriptions of the buildings in Paris, ranging from views of the city’s streets to a sequence of sketches of a once-glamorous hotel, now a little careworn in the midst of occupation. Night-time trysts are a regular occurrence here, as are minor infringements of the blackout regulations. Nevertheless, the staff go about their usual business as far as possible, from the three lift operators, each with his own distinctive personality, to the room service staff, expertly manoeuvring their trays with precision.

Room service staff scoot across the carpets: a hive of activity, as nearly all the milords and ladies breakfast in bed. The heavy tray clamped at shoulder height, head tucked at an angle. The other hand is for opening doors. The long coat-tails like the wing-cases of giant beetles. One, with thick horn-rimmed spectacles, sweaty red face, a strong smell of wine sometimes trailing behind him, is a farmer’s boy from Picardy. The stiff curved shirt front, clippers for ration cards in his pocket on a silver chain. (pp. 114–115)

Hartlaub writes particularly vividly about the skies over Paris, capturing the various colours, the shapes of clouds and the contrast between light and shade with consummate ease. (The notebook entries cover the period from March to August 1941, with Hartlaub taking the opportunity to record a wide range of impressions, reflecting seasonal changes and variations in weather.) Despite the trials of war, he clearly finds immense beauty in the Paris skyline, especially in spring.

The reflection of the Seine carries the pale brightness of the western sky away to the left, to the east. Approaching frost spices the air, yet the weeping willow which leans out over the river from the Square Notre-Dame is already covered with green. The thick, broad crowns of the chestnut trees, which, neither discoloured nor deformed, have managed to retain all that frost and moisture and hold up the snowy sky, are now seized with white foam, pale bursting stars. (p. 43)

Sadly, Hartlaub died in 1945, disappearing from Berlin just days before the war ended. As such, he never had the opportunity to see his work in print. In fact, it’s not entirely clear whether he thought of these fragments as notes for a future novel or a private record of his time in Paris. Many of the passages break off suddenly, and there are a number of omissions that give some of the vignettes an unfinished feel. Nevertheless, the book offers a fascinating insight into an occupied city glimpsed from the perspective of an outsider who felt uncomfortable about certain aspects of the war.

Clouds Over Paris was translated by Simon Beattie and published by Pushkin Press in 2022 – making the book available in English for the first time. My thanks to the publisher and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a reading copy.