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To finish off this week’s feature on Alberto Moravia’s Two Friends, here’s an with the man himself:

Interviewer: You write, then���Ĵ�ý�?

Moravia: I write simply to amuse myself; I write to entertain others and���Ĵ�ý�and, well, to express myself. One has one���Ĵ�ý�s own way of expressing oneself, and writing happens to be mine.

Interviewer: By that, you do not consider yourself a moralist, do you?

Moravia: No, I most emphatically do not. Truth and beauty are educatory in themselves. The very fact of representing the left wing, or a ���Ĵ�ý�wing���Ĵ�ý� of any sort, implies a partisan position and nonobjectivity. For that reason, one is impotent to criticize in a valid sense. Social criticism must necessarily, and always, be an extremely superficial thing. But don���Ĵ�ý�t misunderstand me. Writers, like all artists, are concerned with representing reality, to create a more absolute and complete reality than reality itself. They must, if they are to accomplish this, assume a moral position, a clearly conceived political, social, and philosophical attitude; in consequence, their beliefs are, of course, going to find their way into their work. What artists believe, however, is of secondary importance, ancillary to the work itself. A writer survives in spite of his beliefs. Lawrence will be read whatever one thinks of his notions on sex. Dante is read in the Soviet Union.

A work of art, on the other hand, has a representative and expressive function. In this representation the author���Ĵ�ý�s ideas, his judgments, the author himself, are engaged with reality. Criticism, thus, is no more than a part, an aspect���Ĵ�ý�a minor aspect���Ĵ�ý�of the whole. I suppose, putting it this way, I am, after all, a moralist to some degree. We all are. You know, sometimes you wake up in the morning in revolt against everything. Nothing seems right. And for that day or so, at least until you get over it, you���Ĵ�ý�re a moralist. Put it this way: every man is a moralist in his own fashion, but he is many other things besides. [. . .]

Interviewer: How do you account for the big empty spaces in the novel tradition of Italy? Could you tell us a little about the novel in Italy?

Moravia: That���Ĵ�ý�s a pretty large question, isn���Ĵ�ý�t it? But I���Ĵ�ý�ll try to answer. I think one could say that Italy has had the novel, way back. When the bourgeois was really bourgeois, in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, narrative was fully developed (remember that all that painting was narrative too) but since the Counter-Reformation, Italian society doesn���Ĵ�ý�t like to look at itself in a mirror. The main bulk of narrative literature is, after all, criticism in one form or another. In Italy when they say something is beautiful that���Ĵ�ý�s the last word: Italians prefer beauty to truth. The art of the novel, too, is connected with the growth and development of the European bourgeoisie. Italy hasn���Ĵ�ý�t yet achieved a modern bourgeoisie. Italy is really a very old country; in some ways it looks new because it���Ĵ�ý�s so old. Culturally, now, it follows the rest of Europe: does what the others do, but later. Another thing���Ĵ�ý�in our literary history, there are great writers���Ĵ�ý�titans���Ĵ�ý�but no middle-sized ones. Petrarch wrote in the fourteenth century, then for four centuries everybody imitated him. Boccaccio completely exhausted the possibilities of the Italian short story in the fourteenth century. Our golden centuries were then, our literary language existed then, had crystallized. England and France had their golden centuries much later. Take, for example, Dante. Dante wrote a pure Italian, is still perfectly understandable. But his contemporary Chaucer wrote in a developing tongue: today he must be practically translated for the modern reader. That���Ĵ�ý�s why most modern Italian writers are not very Italian, and must look abroad for their masters: because their tradition is so far back there, is really medieval. In the last ten years, they���Ĵ�ý�ve looked to America for their masters.

Click to read the full interview.