Penguin Book of Italian Short Stories ed. Jhumpa Lahiri
Translated from the Italian by Various
528 pgs. | hc | 9780241299838 | $30.00

Review by Jeanne Bonner

Novels and memoirs often become labors of love for the authors who birth them. But what about an anthology? How often do we imagine the editor of a large, door-stopper compilation of, say, short stories, calling the arduous task of sorting and selecting the entries a labor of love? And what if the short stories are in a foreign language and the editing also involved commissioning new translations and tracking down old ones?

Author Jhumpa Lahiri, who edited the new Penguin Book of Italian Short Stories, doesn糖心传媒檛 use those exact words in the anthology糖心传媒檚 introduction, but she comes pretty close as she describes what inspired her to want to curate such a collection. It糖心传媒檚 of a piece with what inspired her in 2012 (a dozen years after winning the Pulitzer Prize) to move her family to Rome so she could surround herself with the Italian language: 糖心传媒淚 surrendered to an inexplicable urge to distance myself, to immerse myself and to acquire a second literary formation.糖心传媒� That second literary formation she mentions (it makes me think of 糖心传媒渇ormazione,糖心传媒� which in Italian means training or education) has been fruitful. In addition to publishing two books in Italian, including In Other Words, based on the Italian diary she kept in Rome, Lahiri has translated Domenico Starnone’s novels Ties and Trick, and now the short stories of underappreciated or overlooked authors such as Corrado Alvaro, Aldo Palazzeschi, and Fabrizia Ramondino糖心传媒攁ll of which appear in the anthology.

It糖心传媒檚 not unprecedented for an author to go abroad and lose her head over a language and a country (James Joyce also decamped to Italy, and would converse with his children in Italian; James Baldwin lived for decades in France, as did Mavis Gallant). But how often does such an author糖心传媒攅specially one gifted enough to receive this country糖心传媒檚 highest literary honor糖心传媒攎aster the new language enough to write in it or translate important works, as she has done? Indeed, Lahiri糖心传媒檚 role as not only a booster of Italian lit, but also a practitioner arguably transformed the process of editing and curating the Penguin anthology (just as, in her diary, she wrote how Rome had transformed her). The result is a primer on short fiction from Italy that, given its thorough and nuanced selections, will likely be used as a college text. Indeed, Lahiri糖心传媒檚 inclusion of a side-by-side chronology of Italian literary and historical events糖心传媒攁 copy of which may go up on my wall糖心传媒攊s peerless in a general interest book of this kind.

With works by 40 writers whose stories were published over the span of 100 years, the anthology appears at a time when so-called #FerranteFever remains high. Indeed, a new novel by Elena Ferrante, the author of the spectacularly successful Neapolitan Series of novels that begins with My Brilliant Friend, has already been published in Italian and will arrive in American bookstores next year, not a moment too soon for fans of the reclusive writer. It can sometimes seem like everyone in America knows Italy糖心传媒攁nd everyone knows someone who has just returned from Italy, aglow in Mediterranean reminiscing. But beyond Ferrante and a handful of other authors (Dante? Andrea Camilleri?), what does everyone know about Italian literature? Not a whole lot. And perhaps with good reason: translations of books originally published in Italy continue to trail translations of books from France, for example, according to Three Percent糖心传媒檚 Translation Database, now hosted by Publisher糖心传媒檚 Weekly.

Lahiri糖心传媒檚 anthology will help, with short stories from some of the peninsula糖心传媒檚 most important classic writers (Luigi Pirandello, Primo Levi, Antonio Tabucchi, Leonardo Sciascia, Cesare Pavese, Grazia Deledda, Alberto Moravia, et al) as well as a host of lesser-known authors (Anna Banti, Luce D糖心传媒橢ramo, Goffredo Parise, Beppe Fenoglio).

Lahiri uses her learned introduction to trace the trajectory of the Italian short story back to its origins beyond the well-known Boccaccio, namechecking Matteo Bandello and Masuccio Salernitano. Both of these authors (along with Boccaccio) composed what was known as novelle or short tales, stories that often had a moral slant or fable quality to them. They sometimes introduced characters and locales from faraway, and could be quite ribald, as they reveled in deconstructing male-female relationships.

It糖心传媒檚 in the introduction that we also learn how Lahiri specifically sought out women writers, lesser-known writers, and overlooked writers in compiling the anthology. She says she selected stories with an eye particularly toward the experiences of women, as written by women or men. It is gratifying to find works in the anthology by Lalla Romano, Anna Maria Ortese, Elsa Morante, Natalia Ginzburg and Fausta Cialente糖心传媒攆ive writers whom author Dacia Maraini, one of Italy糖心传媒檚 greatest living novelists, has identified as so significant as to be her 糖心传媒渓iterary mothers.糖心传媒� (Maraini is not included in the anthology because Lahiri decided to feature only the work of deceased authors). The inclusion of these five writers, as well as other women, is critical because women authors are often passed over for prizes and less appreciated in Italy, and correspondingly less translated than their male counterparts abroad (according to Three Percent糖心传媒檚 Translation Database, of the 45 books originally published in Italy that were translated from Italian into English in 2018, only seven were by women authors). Moreover, there are quite a few anthologies of Italian short stories where women writers are given scant attention. But not this anthology.

The Penguin work distinguishes itself in other ways, most notably by including more than a dozen works that have never been translated into English, such as 糖心传媒淭he Ambitious Ones,糖心传媒� a gem of a story by Elsa Morante, and 糖心传媒淒ialogue with a Tortoise糖心传媒� by the much-celebrated Italo Calvino. That糖心传媒檚 the power of an anthology like this: not merely compiling in a new place what already existed (which has a value in its own right, particularly here with literature not native to America), but indeed commissioning translations of works that heretofore were unavailable to the vast majority of Anglophone readers, since they do not read Italian.

Also of note among these new translations is 糖心传媒淚nvitation to Dinner糖心传媒� by Alba de Cespedes, which is narrated by an unnamed woman and which brings us the story of a dinner with an English officer in wartime Italy who helps transport the narrator糖心传媒檚 brother back to Rome after the liberation of Northern Italy. The officer smugly tells them the world won糖心传媒檛 automatically welcome Italy back into the fold after 20 long years of barbarous Fascism. The narrator seethes in silence, lamenting that:

糖心传媒� it wasn糖心传媒檛 enough, as proof of civilization, to have manufactured that porcelain or to have written those books squeezed into the shelves that lined the walls of the library. We had to demonstrate once again, to prove, to pass, all forty-five million of us together, a lengthy exam.

The anthology also includes new, updated translations, and among those stories, Elio Vittorini糖心传媒檚 糖心传媒淣ame and Tears糖心传媒� feels like a revelation. It糖心传媒檚 a fable and a mystery wrapped in one, with an extremely fluid translation by Erica Segre and Simon Carnell. The story is about a man searching for a woman. Is she real? He hears her sobbing, and at the end of the tale is left only with a 糖心传媒渉andkerchief, damp with her tears.糖心传媒� The book features a new translation of 糖心传媒淭he Long Voyage糖心传媒� by Leonardo Sciascia, a pivotal twentieth century Sicilian author who was the first to write incisively about the Mafia but whose prose style, as translator and scholar Frederika Randall has remarked, hasn糖心传媒檛 always been served well by English translations.

The anthology caps a wave of newly translated works and retranslated works from Italy in recent years, that糖心传媒檚 been fueled in part perhaps by interest in Ferrante糖心传媒檚 works (and the furor over her identity; Ferrante is a pseudonym). For example, some of the novels of the seminal Ginzburg have been re-translated in recent years, including Jenny McPhee糖心传媒檚 wonderful translation of Family Lexicon, published in 2017 by NYRB. Primo Levi糖心传媒檚 oeuvre has also received the attention it deserves through the tome The Complete Works of Primo Levi, which was edited and translated by Ann Goldstein糖心传媒攁.k.a. Ferrante糖心传媒檚 translator.

It is unsurprising, then, that the anthology reprints excerpts from some of the more notable translations appearing in recent years, including the stunningly good translation of Anna Maria Ortese糖心传媒檚 糖心传媒淎 Pair of Eyeglasses糖心传媒� by the Italian translation dream-team of McPhee and Goldstein (it appeared in the collection Neapolitan Chronicles, published by New Vessel Press in 2018). Ortese糖心传媒檚 influence on her peers and on contemporary writers has been keenly felt, with an echo of her candid descriptions here of an impoverished neighborhood in post-war Naples, and the singular combination of superstition, fate, and politics that reigns over the characters糖心传媒� lives evident in the works of Ferrante, among others. Ortese糖心传媒檚 characters come alive in wonderful and wretched ways, in particular Eugenia, the innocent girl whose family糖心传媒檚 poverty deprives her of glasses, leaving her practically in the dark for years, and Nunziata糖心传媒攖he nagging, morose, unmarried aunt biding her time until death and who utters the unforgettable line, 糖心传媒淢y child, it糖心传媒檚 better not to see the world than to see it.糖心传媒� The anthology also includes a short story by Levi about a centaur (as Lahiri notes in her preface to the story, Levi defied categories).

Equally as good is a story from Ginzburg called 糖心传媒淢y Husband,糖心传媒� expertly translated by Paul Lewis. Ginzburg always writes perceptively about family dynamics and here she has applied her skills to exposing some of the less savory aspects of marriage. When she writes about male-female relationships, she often exposes male infidelity or indifference but without any feminist grandstanding or judgement (she was a better person than I ever will be). In this short story, the husband rather boldly confesses that his surprising indiscretions have continued after the birth of the couple糖心传媒檚 first child, in a scene that is nothing short of breathtaking:

He knelt down in front of me and kissed my bare arms. 糖心传媒楬elp me, I糖心传媒檓 begging you,糖心传媒� he said. 糖心传媒榃hat am I going to do if you won糖心传媒檛 help me?糖心传媒� 糖心传媒楤ut how can I possibly help you?糖心传媒� I screamed, pushing him away and bursting into tears. Then my husband picked up Giorgio, kissed him, gave him to me and said, 糖心传媒楨verything will be easier now, you糖心传媒檒l see.糖心传媒�

Reader, I will only tell you that 糖心传媒渆asier糖心传媒� would not be the word I糖心传媒檇 have chosen to describe the finale of this stunning short tale of Ginzburg糖心传媒檚.

There are many theories about how translations should sound. Some translators and publishers prefer works that retain a trace of foreignness, while others say the translated works should read no differently than a work by an American author. These stories for the most part, like Lahiri糖心传媒檚 translation of the Starnone novels, read so fluidly that you forget they are works in translation. Theory aside, there糖心传媒檚 no arguing that these crisp translations will have the reader eagerly turning pages.

Those of us who have immersed ourselves in Italian literature face a particular conundrum: love of Italy and Italian culture seems to be ubiquitous in America these days, but knowledge and appreciation of the peninsula糖心传媒檚 literary output is, in reality, quite limited. This is partly because other countries subsidize translations with prizes, grants and fellowships, and Italy does not. This is not a recent problem, and as a result, there糖心传媒檚 long been a familiarity with, in particular, French and German authors. Americans know Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Herman Hesse, Bertolt Brecht, W.听G. Sebald, Gunter Grass and so on. But do they know Sciascia? Are Morante糖心传媒檚 books taught widely in high schools and colleges here?

Here糖心传媒檚 to that familiarity extending to Sunny Italy. Indeed, here糖心传媒檚 hoping if the anthology is updated in the future, American readers will be arguing over whether it should have included a short story by Maraini or Niccolo Ammaniti or Donatella Di Pietrantonio. As Lahiri notes in her introduction, English-language literature dominates literary discussions far beyond the borders of Anglophone nations糖心传媒攕omething that 糖心传媒渇ew, on the English-speaking side of the border, stop to question.糖心传媒� Perhaps they should. Lahiri, in her Rome diary, had described the sensation that the Italian language and its literature inspired in her as nothing short of 糖心传媒渞apture.糖心传媒� Here糖心传媒檚 hoping that rapture is catching. For she糖心传媒檚 understood that Italy produces something even more satisfying糖心传媒攆ar more so, in fact糖心传媒攖han a caffelatte or a slice of Neapolitan pizza.

Quo Vadis, Baby?听by Grazia Verasani
Translated from the Italian by Taylor Corse and Juliann Vitullo
180 pgs. | pb |听9781599103662 | $15.00

Review by Jeanne Bonner

The last time I wrote about Grazia Verasani糖心传媒檚 Quo Vadis, Baby? (Mondadori, 2007) I was researching an article for Literary Hub about works by Italian women authors that hadn糖心传媒檛 made it into translation on this side of the Atlantic. I can happily say the book has now been translated, and American readers can meet one of the most unlikely female protagonists coming out of Italian fiction, mystery or otherwise.

Her name is Giorgia Cantini, a private investigator who doesn糖心传媒檛 care what anyone thinks of her. Moreover, she糖心传媒檚 unmarried, unkempt, and unusual. Indeed, one of the most arresting parts of Quo Vadis, Baby?糖心传媒攁nd the later books in the Giorgia Cantini series, so far untranslated糖心传媒攊s the narrator. Specifically, the extent to which she is atypical for an Italian novel糖心传媒攁nd atypical for any kind of female in the spotlight in Italy. It is to Verasani糖心传媒檚 credit that she takes Giorgia, someone she depicts as physically unattractive (a death sentence in many ways for women in Italy), and makes her into someone who is psychologically attractive (as all truly sexy characters are).

Case in point, early in the novel, Giorgia糖心传媒檚 eye becomes inflamed糖心传媒攁 situation she fails to attend to, instead making it worse, like some schoolboy. Verasani writes, 糖心传媒淚f I were someone who puts on makeup, I糖心传媒檇 try to camouflage the difference between one eye and the other. I place the lit cigarette on the edge of the sink, wash my face, pick up the cigarette again, blink my eyes and breath in.糖心传媒� Translation: She is not someone who cares about appearances. She is someone who drinks and smokes incessantly with a weariness that piques the reader糖心传媒檚 attention. At one point she opines, 糖心传媒淢y god, I糖心传媒檓 tired of being human, tired of it. I put out the cigarette under the faucet, rub some toothpaste on my teeth, then leave the house.糖心传媒� That one line alone tells us so much about this character.

Note, none of this is unusual for a P.I., but, again, it is unusual for the stereotype of Italian women we normally find in any kind of fiction, from books to TV to movies. (From personal experience, I can say that Italians can pick out a foreign woman on the street simply if her hair is still wet from the shower and devoid of any kind of styling).

Giorgia eschews many other traditionally female roles. She spends her nights haunting jazz clubs around Bologna until the wee hours. And in scene where she is having lunch with a client named Lucia Tolomelli, she orders a coffee and a Campari, and when asked if she has children, she not only replies 糖心传媒渘o糖心传媒� but adds, 糖心传媒渇ortunately.糖心传媒�

Like all good murder-mysteries, there is a plot and there is a backstory. And the backstory is engrossing: Giorgia糖心传媒檚 sister decamped to Rome to pursue an acting career and wound up dead糖心传媒攆rom suicide. That was more than a decade ago and it糖心传媒檚 never been clear what happened. As she goes about spying on unfaithful spouses for clients, Giorgia糖心传媒檚 thoughts are never far from her sister糖心传媒檚 tragic fate. Notably, Verasani intersperses letters from Ada into the narrative. Giorgia says, 糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檝e transcribed a few sentences from the letter onto a note pad, and I read them now at traffic lights. The last year of my sister糖心传媒檚 life is all there in those scattered pages.糖心传媒�

I see this, and I think, 糖心传媒淕o on.糖心传媒� In fact, the efforts by the translators, Taylor Corse and Juliann Vitullo (both Arizona State University professors), to make this a smooth read pay off more often than not. It糖心传媒檚 worth noting that Vitullo is a professor of Italian while Corse is a professor of English. Good translations, after all, depend on good writing (in the final language, in this case, English).

Letters can often be a successful narrative trope; here they work particularly well because they are letters from someone who has died. Someone whose death has yet to be explained, much less fully grieved (if that state exists). Interwoven into the plot about Ada and the letters is the mysterious identity of someone who might have seen Ada shortly before she committed suicide. Who is this person, known in Ada糖心传媒檚 letters only as 糖心传媒淎.糖心传媒�?

One would not want to insert too many spoilers into this review, but Ada糖心传媒檚 is not the only suicide in the book, and the relationship between these two suicides, and the repercussions of both make for interesting reading.

Verasani has a way with sketching characters. While Giorgia is the star of the book (and the series), her father, who runs the agency with her, is also winning. He糖心传媒檚 your typical curmudgeon but he糖心传媒檚 not a stock character. Pointing to the computers that are now on the desks of agency employees, he says, 糖心传媒淚s that box really necessary?糖心传媒� Lovable, but not without his peccadilloes, including a small alcohol problem (perhaps not surprising, given the grief he feels over the premature death of his daughter). After watching him quietly fumble around the office at one point, Giorgia points to the third drawer of his desk and says to him, 糖心传媒淭he bottle you糖心传媒檙e looking for is there,糖心传媒� before walking out the door of the agency without another word.

Quo Vadis, Baby? is a fun read. But it also represents something else. The Italian prose that currently gets translated into English is overwhelming written by male writers (see Three Percent糖心传媒檚 database, now hosted at Publisher糖心传媒檚 Weekly; of the 35 Italian books listed in the database as published this year, only 5 were written by women authors).

Three of those books are mysteries by Andrea Camilleri, a beloved and veteran mystery writer, and he糖心传媒檚 among several Italian male authors that perennially appear in the database of translated works. Here instead we have a mystery by a woman writer糖心传媒攁 bit of a rarity. Verasani may not have Camilleri糖心传媒檚 profile in Italy糖心传媒攆ew writers do糖心传媒攂ut she is quite accomplished. As the book糖心传媒檚 publisher, Italica Press, notes, Quo Vadis, Baby? is a cult classic in Italy, and not only spawned five sequels but also a film adaptation by famed director Gabriele Salvatores.

Verasani糖心传媒檚 prose糖心传媒攁nd the capable translation by Corse and Vitullo糖心传媒攊s very accessible. In that sense, it may be less high-brow than other literary translations that make it to America (Camilleri糖心传媒檚 books notwithstanding). This is a mystery novel, after all, for a general audience. But one that will appeal to American readers who enjoy, say, Donna Leon糖心传媒檚 books.

For its part, Italica has built a solid reputation among indie presses, and is particularly noted for translations of medieval Italian classics, including works by Boccaccio and Guido Cavalcanti. The press has also brought English readers a fine selection of works by Italian women authors who may not be well-known outside of Italy, including an anthology that features Elena Ferrante and the next generation of female authors. Now, Verasani has taken her place among them.

Last but not least, who wouldn糖心传媒檛 want to read a book called Quo Vadis, Baby? The original title (in Latin!, meaning 糖心传媒淲here are you marching?糖心传媒�) was so cool, the translators didn糖心传媒檛 even need to translate it.

And this is perhaps my way into Class (that was fun to type). Understanding a neighborhood and its denizens is key to understanding what an author like Pacifico may be up to in a book as odd as Class. Williamsburg in Class is the nexus of Italian hipsters. They meet, take drugs, laugh, fuck, grow weary, leave, return. It糖心传媒檚 the sort of place that bohemians with varying degrees of talent flock to, bringing the first wave of gentrification. First wave gentrifiers often bemoan their cherished neighborhoods糖心传媒� shift into commercial areas where moms push doublewide strollers into Lululemon. While they fail to see their role in the gentrification process, readers of their exploits are, allegedly, in on the secret. Dramatic irony notwithstanding, Class doesn糖心传媒檛 seem concerned with judging the hipsters, even when they get up to some questionable activities. The reader is supposed to suspend that sort of moralizing. If that is impossible, the reader is screwed. Abandon the text ye who need redeeming characters.

Recently, Pacifico stated that the 糖心传媒減roblem with American books is that there must always be something moral and sympathetic happening between characters.糖心传媒� He may be onto something there, and I must admit that it糖心传媒檚 refreshing to read a novel where manufactured sympathy is chucked. Nevertheless, Class confirmed my suspicion that the shallowness of hipsters is universal. That the Italians in Class are so informed by American culture, that they travel across the Atlantic to the hipster mecca of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, suggests a larger point about cultural hegemony, though I don糖心传媒檛 feel comfortable forcing such an argument on Pacifico糖心传媒檚 book.

But let糖心传媒檚 look at this for a moment. One of the characters, Lorenzo, is a would-be filmmaker whose sole effort is a pretentious short film that bites off Tarantino, the Coen Brothers, and scores of other hip influences. Another character, Marcello, is an aspiring rapper emulating American MCs. The one American we meet is James Murphy, a novelist in the vein of Franzen and Wallace, though his name is, of course, the same as the frontman of LCD Soundsystem, as hipster a band as one can find. Murphy糖心传媒檚 work is criticized by the main narrator (more on that in a minute) and later, when the reader gets a peek into his notes, one gets the impression that Murphy is an aging hipster coasting off marginal talent. Oddly, the superficiality of these characters is what made me want to keep reading Class, even when they infuriated me. If they are products of a self-emulating culture that has now exported its cool shallowness, then great糖心传媒擯acifico has made a grand statement. If not, if my reading is wrong (likely), then I糖心传媒檒l revert to the old reader-response cop-out and call it a day. In short: looking for one simple moral or overarching argument in Class is probably silly. But, American reader that I am, I looked anyway.

The narrator? For most of the book it糖心传媒檚 Daria: Marxist sometime lover of Nicolino, the playboy of the group. Daria oversees events via the time-honored tradition of omniscient narrator, though quite literally: she sees into people糖心传媒檚 thoughts. There are times when she can糖心传媒檛 and has to make do providing half a conversation, pointing directly to the absurdity of fixed narration in fiction. Shortly after we糖心传媒檙e finally introduced to her糖心传媒攚ell into the book糖心传媒攕he leaves us, the narration taken over by another character before shifting again in a sort of montage. All of this occurs without warning and would be baffling were Pacifico not in possession of a deft hand. This unfixed narration is perhaps my favorite aspect of Class. I prefer it to a novel that feels slavishly devoted to presenting a reliable narrator.

Formal ambition helps this book, and the documentary that results is presented without overt sermonizing. Class may be a social commentary, a weirdly funny look at Italian hipsters, or a larger statement on cultural influence. The kaleidoscope of characters, whose actions and drives are never one-dimensional, eludes easy classification, which makes the entire book a joy. I found myself both rooting for these individuals and delighting in their ruin. Few books can get me to do that. But few books dare go where Class goes. The result is a shaggy, far-reaching, occasionally exasperating, consistently engaging book that is happier leaving an impression than making a grand statement. It糖心传媒檚 a testimony to the possibilities of the contemporary novel.

Friday the 13th! Go catch some black cats before the weekend!

Here’s the beginning of Tiffany’s review:

I would like to pose the argument that it is rare for one to ever come across a truly passive protagonist in a novel. The protagonist (perhaps) of Three Light-Years, Claudio Viberti, is just that糖心传媒攁 shy internist who lives in an apartment above his mother and below his ex-wife, and religiously eats boiled vegetables every day for lunch at the same cafe at the same table. Claudio spends over two years obsessing about Cecilia, a doctor and fellow colleague, until the day he is able to stutter out his profession of love for her, only to proceed in engaging with her in his car a safe distance from the hospital where they work. Following and/or during this engagement (not clear), Claudio also stumbles into a relationship with Cecilia糖心传媒檚 sister, Silva, who shortly thereafter learns she is expecting. These ingredients and known plot “twists” are the makings of an episode of Grey糖心传媒檚 Anatomy, except with a passive protagonist as a stand-in for McDreamy. Disappointingly, no attempts were really made to make the characters compelling or interesting beyond those of our typical hour-long sitcoms located in hospitals in Seattle and Los Angeles. The only interesting twist was that this hospital is located in a suburb of a large Italian city, and with that comes the typical romantic stereotypes.

For the rest of the review, go here

After working through Three Light-Years with determination and perseverance, I tried to identify other works that had truly passive protagonist. Honestly, the best I could conjure up were the isolated, solitude-loving types, but not ones who barely cross the barrier of being a prop and being a plot driver like dear Claudio. Perhaps that is the beauty of this work. However, the reader will likely remain skeptical of this model and distance themselves from the work because the reader is never provided with any insights into what is motivating the characters糖心传媒� actions and decisions, or rather mistakes and poor choices. This is no surprise as the work seemed wholly unconcerned about the reader and more concerned presenting the the narcissistic tendencies of the two antagonists, the two sisters who stumble into affairs with Claudio without any analysis, question, or notion of attraction for him. Further, the reader will have to experience the same episode of the well-known sitcom not only from Claudio糖心传媒檚 prop-like existence, but also from Cecila糖心传媒檚 and Silva糖心传媒檚 perspectives as well.

What was compelling and redeeming about Three Light-Years were the anecdotes about life peppered through the work at just the level to motivate the steadfast reader to continue. The following quotes provide a few examples:

“. . . [T]here is no present that is of greater interest to me than that distant past that I did not experience, about which I know almost nothing, and which I continue to imagine, fabricating other people糖心传媒檚 memories.”

“As a general rule, it糖心传媒檚 always best to know as little as possible about other people糖心传媒檚 business. Not that it糖心传媒檚 difficult to keep the things you accidentally come to know to yourself and pretend you know nothing. But even if you pretend not to know, you do know, and your life is invaded by the lives of others.”

“Memory is unfair . . . the person remembering is now older anymore disillusioned and forgetful than the young, deluded, determined protagonist of her memories. That糖心传媒檚 why memory is unfair.”

Perhaps I have been reading too much Cesar Aira lately, but I appreciate being captivated by the awkward or self-imposed solitude of the characters of his works. This requires insights into the inner thoughts and motivations of those characters. Without being provided with such insights, the reader has to really justify why he or she has read Three Light-Years and, more importantly, whether engagement with the work was even possible.

The Four Corners of Palermo is not a novel but a collection of four episodes. Each chapter takes the hero, a gritty young crime reporter, to a different quarter of the city, where he finds a new noir crime scene and a new Venus-like lover. In the first chapter, he pieces together the family drama behind a shootout in the streets. The second has him investigating car bombings, and the third chasing a father who kidnapped his own children. The fourth has him befriending a daughter whose father is found beheaded in a town square, and ultimately deciding not to publish what he learns.

Di Piazza糖心传媒檚 sensational material and nostalgic memory of the 1980s make his stories pleasurable, though vapid. The book suffers for its episodic structure, which leaves little opportunity for the nameless reporter to make much of an impression on the reader, and even less opportunity for him to learn something. A cast of shallow, personality-free female characters surrounds a 糖心传媒淕ary Stu糖心传媒� protagonist, who runs from fashion model to murder scene without a misstep. It is a fun noir romp told in cinematic jump-cut scenes, but not a gratifying novel.

A former crime reporter, Di Piazza is clearly writing from experience. His bloody streets and severed heads are raw and vivid. But most disturbing糖心传媒攁nd, sadly, perhaps most realistic糖心传媒攊s his depiction of journalistic ethics in a city under Mafia rule. Di Piazza糖心传媒檚 hero lies to sources about his identity, allows a source to retroactively declare an interview off-the-record, and finally decides that keeping the truth buried is the only way to avoid further violence. 糖心传媒淒on糖心传媒檛 let the press write the whole truth,糖心传媒� he decides. While this may be realistic in a city that lives under constant fear of violence, it makes a disappointing end to the book. And it is surprising for an idealistic reporter who has not backed out of reporting the previous episodes. Anyone looking for a glimpse of gutsy, uncompromised reporting on Italian organized crime would be better off turning to Gomorrah, Roberto Saviano糖心传媒檚 2006 糖心传媒渘on-fiction novel糖心传媒� on the brutal Neapolitan mob. But remember that its author will spend the rest of his life under a 24-hour police escort, fearing reprisal. Maybe Di Piazza糖心传媒檚 fictional reporter should not be faulted for protecting his safety.

Di Piazza糖心传媒檚 book drips with nostalgia. It is peppered with references to Pink Floyd and John Coltrane that admirers of the era will enjoy. His loving details of the city are less successful, however. The author糖心传媒檚 Palermo never becomes more than a lifeless backdrop before which his reporter runs. This is despite Di Piazza糖心传媒檚 apparent attempts to glorify the city by throwing in landmarks or descriptions of gelato and sfincione pizza that sound as if written by Sicily糖心传媒檚 tourism bureau. He may convince you that Sicily has beautiful views and rich food, but will not leave you with vivid images of Palermo nor any burning wanderlust. Given the book糖心传媒檚 title and efforts, this is a disappointment.

While I know from experience the challenges of Italian-to-English translation, I find Shugaar’s translation a bit too literal for my taste. This is most jarring in moments when Shugaar retains the Italian fondness for colons and semicolons. It works well in some instances, but can seem quite misplaced in street dialogue (as in, “Don’t talk crap: we tell you to go kill that traitor to his family and when you come back you’ve let him shoot you.”). Fortunately, Shugaar hits his stride in a few of the book’s most exciting scenes, producing some beautiful moments. The strongest passages have the reporter discovering his lover’s addiction, falling in love with a beautiful but tortured fashion model, and sneaking into prison to visit a key witness.

Di Piazza’s book is a loving, though sometimes dull, portrait of a legendary city. Despite a few chilling passages, its noir verve does not come near living up to the author’s hopeful nods to Dashiell Hammett. Four Corners of Palermo makes a fun sensationalist read for lovers of Mafia fiction, but not a literary novel.

This book was published in English in 2012, but considering the attention Ferrante has been getting for her work since then, this is a very appropriate “Better late than never” kind of review. I’ve yet to read anything of Ferrante’s, but am absolutely aching to after all the high praise and descriptions of her writing.

Acacia O’Connor is a first wave U of R MALTS alumna working from Italian into English. She works at Columbia University and shares a subway stop with Dr. Craig Spencer, the first Ebola patient in New York City. Instead of attending ALTA 2014, she thought it would be fun to run a marathon, at night, on the Las Vegas strip. (I was also with her at the opening night midnight-showing of the first part of the last Harry Potter movie. We did not dress up.)

Here’s the beginning of Acacia’s review:

It hasn糖心传媒檛 quite neared the pitch of the waiting-in-line-at-midnight Harry Potter days, but in small bookstores and reading circles of New York City, an aura has attended the novelist Elena Ferrante and her works. One part curiosity (Who is she?), one part eager devotion (Where is she, I want to be her best friend!), enthusiasm over Ferrante was reignited when the third book in Ferrante糖心传媒檚 Neapolitan novel series was published this month.

Her fans, reviewers, and interviewers don糖心传媒檛 know who she is, where she is, whether her name is really Elena Ferrante, how much her books are drawn from her life or the lives of friends, family. Even her translator, the fantastic Ann Goldstein, has corresponded with her only sparingly. What is known is that her works have great, deep, broad feelings. Mammoth feelings. Feelings like a spiny barrier reef coating the entire bottom of the Mare di Napoli. And readers, it seems, are really into those feels.

I, too, was caught up. My Brilliant Friend evokes those familiar yet almost indescribable feelings about long friendships, adolescence, and home. You糖心传媒檙e inextricably tied to a person, a place, but you hate how strong the connection is, how it drags you back in when you try to escape it; slowly it tears you apart.

That sounds melodramatic. In real life, we tend to downplay drama, shake off the pain. Feels are for Tumblr. But those moments of 糖心传媒渟uffering糖心传媒� (perhaps the most prevalent word in My Brilliant Friend) exist. When elementary school 糖心传媒渂est friends糖心传媒� were established and betrayed. When a very close friend goes off and gets married young. When someone you love moves smack dab across the country. Rarely do we find the tension, the dissatisfaction, or the fear created by the completely natural and expected changes in friendships articulated as clearly as we find it in these novels.

Ferrante captures the unnerving and beautiful elements of human relationships with vivid precision and dramatic seriousness. While the main character and narrator of My Brilliant Friend is Elena Greco, the true protagonist is the bond between Elena, called Lenu, and her childhood friend, Raffaela 糖心传媒淟ila糖心传媒� Cerrullo. Elena and Lila are two children of a lively, dirty, poverty-stricken ghetto in Naples. Elena and Lila are best friends, but at times one or the other of them isn糖心传媒檛 so sure of it. The friendship is dynamic, as much in flux as anything in their world糖心传媒攁 world where adults grease the palms of Mafiosi, scream at one another, beat their children, and throw irons out of windows.

For the rest of the review, go here.

Her fans, reviewers, and interviewers don糖心传媒檛 know who she is, where she is, whether her name is really Elena Ferrante, how much her books are drawn from her life or the lives of friends, family. Even her translator, the fantastic Ann Goldstein, has corresponded with her only sparingly. What is known is that her works have great, deep, broad feelings. Mammoth feelings. Feelings like a spiny barrier reef coating the entire bottom of the Mare di Napoli. And readers, it seems, are really into those feels.

I, too, was caught up. My Brilliant Friend evokes those familiar yet almost indescribable feelings about long friendships, adolescence, and home. You糖心传媒檙e inextricably tied to a person, a place, but you hate how strong the connection is, how it drags you back in when you try to escape it; slowly it tears you apart.

That sounds melodramatic. In real life, we tend to downplay drama, shake off the pain. Feels are for Tumblr. But those moments of 糖心传媒渟uffering糖心传媒� (perhaps the most prevalent word in My Brilliant Friend) exist. When elementary school 糖心传媒渂est friends糖心传媒� were established and betrayed. When a very close friend goes off and gets married young. When someone you love moves smack dab across the country. Rarely do we find the tension, the dissatisfaction, or the fear created by the completely natural and expected changes in friendships articulated as clearly as we find it in these novels.

Ferrante captures the unnerving and beautiful elements of human relationships with vivid precision and dramatic seriousness. While the main character and narrator of My Brilliant Friend is Elena Greco, the true protagonist is the bond between Elena, called Lenu, and her childhood friend, Raffaela 糖心传媒淟ila糖心传媒� Cerrullo. Elena and Lila are two children of a lively, dirty, poverty-stricken ghetto in Naples. Elena and Lila are best friends, but at times one or the other of them isn糖心传媒檛 so sure of it. The friendship is dynamic, as much in flux as anything in their world糖心传媒攁 world where adults grease the palms of Mafiosi, scream at one another, beat their children, and throw irons out of windows.

The two grow up dreaming of gem-filled treasure chests, they dream of escape through education, wealth, and notoriety. They are each vying, sometimes together but more often independently, to become Masters of their Universe. At first, the Universe is bordered by the cluster of homes that make up their neighborhood, with the stradone at its extreme border. But as they grow, they push the boundaries of their parents糖心传媒� world. Like two people on a single ladder, they push one another up and push against one another. Where the ladder leads, they don糖心传媒檛 know . . . but wherever it leads, it糖心传媒檚 better than the perpetual grime of the neighborhood糖心传媒攖hat much is clear. They might fall off into the routine existence of their parents, but then again they might reach somewhere beyond.

In one another, they recognize a competitor and a confidant. From an early age, Elena finds that the only thing that gives her dedicated studying any color is discussing it with Lila, who is rangy, mercurial, and completely captivating. Lila糖心传媒檚 feelings and motivations, on the other hand, aren糖心传媒檛 entirely clear. She糖心传媒檚 one of the cagiest characters in all of literature. While writer-Elena hints that she has figured Lila out, she plays her hand carefully, ensuring we share in the ignorance and confusion of her younger self. The mystery grows as the girls enter their teenage years and their paths start to diverge. To Elena and to the reader, Lila糖心传媒檚 choices appear illogically banal and suspiciously disappointing. If survival in the neighborhood involves building up the hand you糖心传媒檙e dealt, Lila is either playing the wrong cards or is about to pull off the biggest bluff imaginable. In the shocking festivities of the final pages of Book I, you find out who got had.

While the book has a handful of families at its heart, it gives the impression of a whole undiscovered world, which Ferrante brings into being, page by page. And translator Ann Goldstein is our faithful screever: she traces over this world with bright chalk, holds your hand and, Dick-Van-Dyke-style, jumps you into the picture. It needs to be said that not only are these books deftly and beautifully rendered into English, the speed with which Goldstein has produced them糖心传媒攚hile also holding a position as editor of the _New Yorker_糖心传媒攊s incredibly impressive.

*

For a number of reasons, one in particular, Doris Lessing糖心传媒檚 The Golden Notebook sprung to mind while reading this book. While the themes of the two books are distinct, each boasts an emotional timbre that is at once exhausting and addicting. Both books chronicle the narrators糖心传媒� states of mind in minute detail, truthfully and powerfully, even as their worlds crumble around them.

The phrase 糖心传媒渇emale friendship糖心传媒� has appeared frequently in reviews about the Neapolitan novels; also, the word 糖心传媒渇eminist.糖心传媒�

Why is that? There is the obvious fact that Elena and Lila are girls and Ferrante is also a woman糖心传媒� I糖心传媒檓 not being an ass. My question is, why is 糖心传媒渇emale friendship糖心传媒� more accurate than simply 糖心传媒渇riendship糖心传媒�? Is My Brilliant Friend more a book about women specifically than a book about human beings generally? I really don糖心传媒檛 think so, and I worry that the appearance of this language ultimately diminishes the novel.

Enter again The Golden Notebook, which also revolves around the lives of two friends striving to make sense of a shifting society, almost at the cost of sanity. Lessing糖心传媒檚 novel has often been called a great feminist work, a label the author resisted day after day until
she died at the age of 94. She thought it missed the point.

“Oh, it’s just stupid; I’ve seen it so often,” Lessing said. “I mean, there’s nothing feminist about The Golden Notebook. The second line is: ‘As far as I can see, everything is cracking up.’ That is what The Golden Notebook is about!”

I don糖心传媒檛 believe those who emphasize the female in these works are necessarily trying to deny other, broader qualities, but I fear that is the effect. Qualifying descriptions and praise (糖心传媒渁 brilliant depiction of female friendship糖心传媒澨切拇溅 糖心传媒渁 great feminist work糖心传媒�) puts Great works of Literature in some subsidiary genre. The labels are overburdened. They are by their very nature delimiting. They strip away the universality of Literature, leaving behind the partial, the particular, the confined. They convey: this is about ladies, for ladies, by a lady writer.

Strike the words 糖心传媒渇emale糖心传媒� and 糖心传媒渇eminist糖心传媒� and see what you get: a nuanced friendship, a striking coming-of-age story, a powerful work. A novel about human beings immobilized by the numbing, normalizing tendencies of poverty. Two young people trying to disprove that worn dictum 糖心传媒済eography is destiny糖心传媒� by any means necessary. A narrator trying to shape an identity and enter new realms, chained by her past and by the love she bears for others.

Now tell me that ain糖心传媒檛 universal.

Generally, I糖心传媒檓 a suspicious reader; big claims scare me off. Having never watched a Fellini film and with only Calvino and Pavese as literary signposts, I entered the novel (guided by veteran translator Michael F. Moore) with a healthy amount of skepticism. Just a few chapters in, however, I knew that even if Genovesi hadn糖心传媒檛 managed to overcome clich茅, he had indeed created an electric book, a book that stirs, and one that you can糖心传媒檛 help living糖心传媒攁nd living with糖心传媒攁long the way. It糖心传媒檚 fair to say that Genovesi糖心传媒檚 English debut touches all the right spots and echoes back just enough universalized Weltschmerz to leave the reader cringing over mistakes they too once made. And, for that, you糖心传媒檙e in it until the end.

Live Bait launches with a memory, as things usually do: a fused snapshot, a spark of what was circling through a narrative live wire. Yet for our antihero Fiorenzo Marelli, it is a recollection that continues on, as some would put it, in phantomlike form; he has already lost part of himself (literally) before he hits that strange, dazed, and oddly jaded limbo called high school. This first brush with emptiness has cleared the way for the Italian metalhead糖心传媒檚 Bildungsroman to creep into being, made evident as he so casually philosophizes in the novel糖心传媒檚 first episode: 糖心传媒淏ecause real emptiness isn糖心传媒檛 finding nothing. It糖心传媒檚 finding nothing where there糖心传媒檚 supposed to be something.糖心传媒� And not so strangely, it is just this emptiness that continues to occupy his life; it is a nebulous hollow that, like the ditches where he finds respite while fishing for bottom feeders, belies a host of other organisms underneath. Now, maybe I糖心传媒檓 mixing my reviewer metaphors here. Even so, I糖心传媒檇 also hedge a bet that it is by crafting just this eddy of images floating in and out of view that Genovesi grasps onto our 糖心传媒渞eal糖心传媒� world.

The novel rightly begins with a nineteen-year-old Fiorenzo, handless, rehearsing with his band Metal Devastation. He has recently lost his mother and has become increasingly estranged from his father. Fiorenzo糖心传媒檚 a smart kid糖心传媒攋ust let him tell you糖心传媒攁lthough he refuses to continue on as society expects. School, work, all of it can wait. When his father offers to put up a talented outsider from the bicycling team he coaches, Fiorenzo hastily retreats; sensing the aloof new youngster a threat to his throne, he moves into their family bait shop to live among the worms. Cue the soft shuffling of little grubby insects for some novelistic ambience. We hear him muse in his bed for a while: 糖心传媒淎nd there I was, lying down on sacks of amaretto-and-cherry flavored ground bait, thinking this was the sound you heard in the coffin.糖心传媒� He糖心传媒檒l keep that little tidbit for later to write some awful lyrics about his melancholy experience.

Days go by, but Fiorenzo doesn糖心传媒檛 budge. His town, Muglione, seems to be rotting. He is cast into a net of familial and social backwash and, feeling the routine ennui that accompanies small-town life, sets about to become famous糖心传媒攊t糖心传媒檚 what he deserves of course, having spent years as a social outcast糖心传媒攁long with his band mates. This includes one chubby guy who, as Fiorenzo relays, believes that, 糖心传媒淭-Shirts are the cages of the system.糖心传媒� Their debut at a local festival is on the horizon. But things don糖心传媒檛 go as planned. No one is listening. In fact, they糖心传媒檙e booed off stage. He isn糖心传媒檛 ready. The world is shit. He is ready. Ready for something. He糖心传媒檚 angry. Maybe he has the right to be. There is some really rich teenage angst to be mined here, and Genovesi accomplishes it better than Salinger, in my humble opinion. Fiorenzo may sense that things are 糖心传媒減hony,糖心传媒� but at least he knows how to take a cosmic joke.

And the saga wouldn糖心传媒檛 be complete without a beautiful woman to set off the story, and it just so happens that this woman, believing Italian men to be little boys gone bald, is just curious enough糖心传媒攁nd perhaps I糖心传媒檓 being generous here糖心传媒攖o let Fiorenzo in. Her name is Tiziana Cosci: witty, intelligent, a girl with great tits but still plagued with the same stifling insecurity that so many thirty-somethings in quarter-life crisis have yet to shake off. Those sighs of relief糖心传媒攜ou survived your teenage years!糖心传媒攖hat you let out while reading passages fervidly narrated by Fiorenzo now get caught in your throat. The anxiety, the shame, the offhand words imprinted on your tongue all still exist; now you糖心传媒檙e just better at hiding it. But that糖心传媒檚 where the real story begins, where the two fronts of weakness and doubt and curiosity collide: two bodies, strange, new in that I糖心传媒檇 do anything to just touch your skin teenage kind-of-way, enter a half-finished tango to the grunts of old Italian men.

I糖心传媒檓 not sure if I糖心传媒檓 being nostalgic or not糖心传媒攕trangely enough, I too had a 19-year-old metalhead boyfriend who is strikingly like the protagonist糖心传媒攂ut the only word that I糖心传媒檒l allow myself to describe Fiorenzo is 糖心传媒渢ender,糖心传媒� perhaps because that word also appears on the back cover. I say tender knowing that tenderness is a condition laced with a smattering of other emotions and conditions that we tend to shed with age: a tender narcissism, a tender cruelty, a tender misfit-hood, a tender awkward few fingers not reaching their mark in bed. And this tenderness is also always physical for Fiorenzo, from his phantom limb to the first amorous caresses that he shares with Tiziana. I closed the book a few times in embarrassment for our man on the ground, who, knowing his limits, spells out the delicate situation quite concretely: 糖心传媒淟isten, I don糖心传媒檛 know how to put it inside, but I can recognize a carp bite a mile away.糖心传媒�

I糖心传媒檇 be remiss if I didn糖心传媒檛 mention a cluster of minor characters that animate the book, types that all those stuck in a languishing little town might recognize. My favorite is a certain Mazinger, who, outfitted in ridiculous hand-me-ups from a fashion-slave grandson, hangs around every corner speaking 糖心传媒渓ike a Japanese robot.糖心传媒� We first encounter him in the bait shop, telling Fiorenzo, 糖心传媒淵OUR糖心传媒擠AD糖心传媒擨S糖心传媒擜糖心传媒擲HIT.糖心传媒� Mazinger is part of an elderly troop calling themselves the 糖心传媒淢uglione Guardians.糖心传媒� These old men must fight off the gangs of Romanians and other Eastern Europeans who have found their way into the grand village of Muglione, although these Romanian gangsters are not really gangsters, nor are they Romanian. Then there糖心传媒檚 Mirko, the little champ set to win back Muglione糖心传媒檚 honor. Gripped by those tender years of adolescence, he糖心传媒檚 a kid who just wants to fit in and who winds up carrying Fiorenzo糖心传媒檚 biggest secret. Put all of these folks together in Genovesi糖心传媒檚 world and you糖心传媒檙e stuck to the book like glue.

Underneath the jocular weavings of Fiorenzo and his crew, some real tensions糖心传媒攁nd by real I aim to underscore the tangible anxieties that inevitably work their way into conversation when speaking about the economic situation in Europe at present糖心传媒攑oke through. Muglione comes to represent a fierce attachment to tradition that is quickly dying with its elderly brigades. The only things that seem to be prospering are the shops and other business ventures run by immigrants, and anyone who has spent time in Europe knows that the politics around this new class of workers is on the tip of every tongue.

As for the translation, it hits head on. And it is just this kind of book that demands a kind of lived translation糖心传媒攚ith all of its dialogue and code-switching between generations and genre糖心传媒攊n order to keep up with the curious humor that runs right through. I糖心传媒檓 hesitant to mention any points where I stumbled in my own reading, not only because I糖心传媒檓 not familiar with the source text, but also because I think that Moore has captured so much of what pulled at my heart in his playful rendering. But perhaps as a note for future readers (of which I hope there will be many), I糖心传媒檒l mention that there are a few points where you糖心传媒檙e not sure if it糖心传媒檚 a teenager or his father speaking. It糖心传媒檚 hard for me at twenty-five to read the word 糖心传媒減rick糖心传媒� where the word 糖心传媒渄ick糖心传媒� seems called for; again, I糖心传媒檓 drawing on my ex-metal head糖心传媒檚 vocabulary. I also learned a new word糖心传媒斕切拇綔suck-ass糖心传媒澨切拇綌that I糖心传媒檒l be employing more often. Friends beware.

En fin, Live Bait won糖心传媒檛 change your life. But it will open you up. It will open up that part of you that you糖心传媒檝e been trying to cover with dirt and paper in your attempt at adulthood. It糖心传媒檚 not mawkish. There糖心传媒檚 no grand plan. And there糖心传媒檚 some clich茅. But most of all, there is tenderness, and I would read the novel again just to feel that bit of warmth emanating from its pages.

If you’re looking for some post-WWII-themed, summer reading with disturbing imagery that would blow Jane Yolen and her time-traveling YA hit out of the shark-infested waters (don’t ask about the sharks), this book should be on your list. The rich, blood-red cover treatment, the title, the grisly things Peter (of the ) mentions in his review . . . It’s enough to make you literally grimace and wonder how many episodes of Keeping up with the Kardashians you can self-medicate with to make the entire world go away but still not land yourself in the camp of comatose self-loathing. Basically, if you want a visceral and historical heebie-jeebie fest, this is it.

And yes: Kardashians and WWII. You saw that combination here first, folks.

Anyway, here’s a part of Peter’s review糖心传媒攁nd enjoy the weekend!:

The Skin is Malaparte糖心传媒檚 description of this moral plague. He writes about a character of the same name who accompanies a band of Pollyannaish American soldiers as they go about Naples acting as both conquerors and liberators. He bears witness to the variety of horrors that come at the end of a long war: starvation, slavery, casual murder, careless disposal of the dead, and the caustic nature with which the rich feed upon the poor (both literally and metaphorically), to name a few.

But these atrocities are merely a symptom of, or coexist with, the moral plague. Malaparte bemoans the easy way Neapolitans bend to the wishes of their American conquerors. 糖心传媒淚t was enough that a child should put into its mouth a candy offered to it by an American soldier, and its innocent soul would be corrupted.糖心传媒� The Neapolitans are too willing to trade national identity, pride, and dignity, just to get along with the new powers that be.

The Americans, for their part, approach this horrid landscape as if they weren糖心传媒檛 at least partially responsible, and so they become the target of Malaparte糖心传媒檚 most acidic sarcasm. The Americans of The Skin remain ignorant of Neapolitan culture. One American repeatedly speaks French to Malaparte and others, suggesting that, to him, all cultures other than his own are more or less the same. The Americans take what they can from the country they糖心传媒檝e razed with bombs and tanks, all the while holding themselves blameless. It rings true.

For the rest of the review, go here.