Kenyon Review

ON FRANTUMAGLIA: A WRITER’S JOURNEY BY ELENA FERRANTE

by Natalie Bakopoulos

“It’s not my absence that generates interest in my books,” the Italian writer Elena Ferrante notes in an interview, “but the interest in my books that generates media interest in my absence.” Ferrante has been famously adamant about her anonymity, only giving selective, careful interviews. And though many have speculated about her identity, it had remained unknown, or at least unnamed—and most of us liked it that way. And then this past October, the Italian journalist Claudio Gatti conducted a heartless investigation for the New York Review of Books to uncover it. I won’t go into its details here.

Frantumaglia, released this past November, comprises Ferrante’s various interviews and written correspondence. Critics have noted the irony: a writer such as Ferrante—who insists the work should speak for itself—publishes a book of personal interviews, letters, and deleted scenes. Ferrante herself even asks, in a letter contained in its pages: “Why, above all, add so much of my chatter . . . ?”

Me, I don’t see the contradiction. My question is, Why would she not? Her letters and interviews are decidedly not mere chatter: they, too, are literary works. They show artistry and imagination, and Ferrante even notes the difficulty of answering interview questions because they lead her into a complicated maze of storytelling, artifacts, and searching. Frantumaglia is in itself a compelling narrative, and while immersed in its pages, I often felt I was immersed in a work within a work, a story in documents.

The Neapolitan Quartet, comprising four novels narrated by an Italian writer named Elena Greco, is also a work within a work. The novels focus on the complicated, often antagonistic friendship between Elena and her friend Lila Cerullo, set against the backdrop of their neighborhood in Naples and its cultural, political, and social concerns. Elena Ferrante is the author who writes under a pseudonym. Though Ferrante has not herself called her work an autofiction, Elena Greco’s book is arguably masterfully so, a writer in an urgent attempt to write—and preserve—the self. Elena Greco is the writer of the text we read. And within the book, Elena Greco discusses books she has written, but we don’t have full access to them.

Frantumaglia, then, adds a new artful layer. The book is not without its own meta-elements; it contains dozens of letters between Ferrante and her publisher, many of which discuss the actual making of the book that we hold in our hands. It also includes scenes that were cut from her novels—adding yet another meta-layering. But make no mistake: reading Frantumaglia is not as simple as reading the other half of Elena Ferrante. It is far more complicated than simply splitting her between the who writes at her desk and the I who exists on the page.

She notes in an interview:

If we were made only of two halves, individual life would be simple, but the “I” is a crowd, with a large quantity of heterogeneous fragments tossing about inside. And the female “I”, in particular, with its long history of oppression and repression, tends to shatter as it’s tossed around, and to reappear and shatter again, always in an unpredictable way. Stories feed on the fragments, which are concealed under an appearance of unity and constitute a sort of chaos to depart from, an obscurity to illuminate.

The word frantumaglia she defines as “a jumble of fragments”: “the storehouse of time without the orderliness of a history, a story.” But the boundaries between these fragments—writer at the desk and the writer inhabiting the invented world—are blurred. “Over the years,” Ferrante writes, “ . . . I’ve come closer and closer to the idea that real writing is what emerges by itself, from an ecstatic condition. But often I discover that ecstasy is imagined as a disembodiment. The ecstasy of writing is feeling not the breath of the word that is liberated from the flesh but the flesh that becomes one with the breath of the words.”

She says: “I tend to throw into words . . . my entire body.” Creating, for Ferrante, is also a deeply physical act. She demonstrates a keen awareness of the overdetermined nature of the female body, both in Frantumagliaand in her work in general. Ferrante is not necessarily claiming she wants to be without a public, cultural voice, but perhaps one without a public body. And if we examine the commentary on the appropriation and fragmentation of the female body in Ferrante’s work: as abject, as decaying, as appropriated, as object of the male gaze, as a corpse, her reasons to not want to become, as she writes of one of her characters, “an erotic gift to the spectator” or one up for mockery or comment, seem self-evident. For example, she writes of not wanting to dress nicely, in form-fitting clothes that showcased the body, or with makeup—“I hid in big shirts, sweaters two sizes too large, baggy jeans”—because she feared a man might think it was for him, and then laugh about it behind her back. This complicated fear, of both being misunderstood and humiliated, is telling.

But I don’t want to read Ferrante’s request to remain hidden as solely a feminist statement. It’s an artistic one too, and she’s careful not to simply blame the patriarchy:

I don’t like to think, as we often do, that the tremendous actions of the heroines of myths are merely the product of a pernicious male racket, of a patriarchal plot: in the end it’s like attributing to women a lack of humanity, and that isn’t useful. We have to learn, rather, to speak with pride of our complexity, of how in itself it informs our citizenship, whether in joy or in rage.

Frantumaglia shows her unyielding interest in female complexity. She notes: “The process of fragmentation in a woman’s body interests me very much from the narrative point of view. It means telling the story of a present-day female I that suddenly perceives itself disintegrating, it loses the sense of time, it’s no longer in order, it feels like a vortex of debris, a whirlwind of thoughts-words.”

And this fragmentation needs self-care. When a male interviewer asks her if she’d be willing to give a physical description of herself, she replies with a firm “No.” She calmly explains herself, but she does not apologize. To which any woman—or any man for that matter, though it’s rare for a male writer to be asked about his children, or spouse, or work-life balance—can attest, it is difficult to refuse to answer, without apology, when asked about one’s private life. Our share-all world has made protecting the private seem almost like a perversion, a deviance, an act to view with suspicion. More than once she cites Italo Calvino, who says: “Ask me what you want to know, but I won’t tell you the truth, of that you can be sure.” It’s not that Ferrante necessarily draws a line between the Iwho writes and the I who appears on the page; it’s that perhaps she knows the boundaries between art and life are tenuous. Writing for Ferrante, then, is a sort of frantumaglia, and it’s no wonder that once the book has been released in the world, she’d like to attempt to shore up all that fragmentation.

Throughout this collection, Elena Ferrante asks us to not only respect the boundaries between the work and what remains outside it, “an invisible gutter,” but to also consider what boundaries the work dissolves. “In my experience, the difficulty-pleasure of writing touches every point of the body. When you’ve finished the book, it’s as if your innermost self had been ransacked, and all you want is to regain distance, return to being whole.” In short, her self-preservation becomes a political act. By rejecting her authorial persona as a public body, she forces us to readjust our biases, refuses to let us apply the same language, the same discussion, to her work.

The work is the public presence: “The voice is part of your body, it needs your presence—you speak, you have a dialogue, you correct, you give further explanations. Writing, on the other hand, once it’s fixed on a support structure, is autonomous, it needs a reader, not you.”

“The rest,” she says, “is ordinary private life.”

Huffington Post

The “What Would Virginia Woolf Do?” List Of Must-Read Books By Women

I run a Facebook group called “What Would Virginia Woolf Do?” (a twisted joke about one of my literary and feminist heroines) of super candid, super smart women over forty, and we’re all huge readers. The group started as a private forum for me and some girlfriends to bitch and moan about perimenopausal woes, but it has grown into so much more: a vibrant community where we “discuss, support, and share things that we may not care to share with the men and children in our lives.”

On March 8, 2017, in commemoration of International Women’s Day, a Woolfer posted a list put out by the New York Public Library of 365 published female authors from all around the globe to keep us inspired all year round. Their list is inspiring, but we were shocked by how many of our truly beloved favorite women writers were left off, so we created our own, and we think it’s so good, and so important, that it’s worth sharing:

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Americanah

Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

Dorothy Allison, Bastard out of Carolina

Isabel Allende, House of Spirits

Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale

Jane Austen, Persuasion

Jane Austen, Lady Susan

Djuna Barnes, Nightwood

Lynda Barry, Cruddy

Jane Bowles, Two Serious Ladies

Anne Brontë, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

Charlotte Brontë, Villette

Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

Frances Burney, Evelina

Octavia Butler, Lilith’s Brood

A.S. Byatt, The Children’s Book

Ann Carson, The Autobiography of Red

Angela Carter, Nights at the Circus

Willa Cather, My Antonia

Jung Chang, Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China

Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street

Laurie Colwin, Happy All the Time

Lydia Davis, Break It Down

Simone De Beauvoir, The Second Sex

Joan Didion, The White Album

Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

Margaret Drabble, The Waterfall

Margaret Drabble, The Millstone

Jennifer Egan, A Visit from the Goon Squad

George Eliot, Middlemarch

Nora Ephron, Scribble Scribble

Jennifer Cody Epstein, The Gods of Heavenly Punishment

Louise Erdrich, Love Medicine

Jenny Erpenbeck, The Old Child

Laura Esquivel, Like Water for Chocolate

Elena Ferrante, The Neapolitan Novels

Melanie Finn, The Gloaming

Marilyn French, The Women’s Room

Mary Gaitskill, Bad Behavior

Cristina Garcia, Dreaming in Cuban

Stella Gibbons, Cold Comfort Farm

Gail Godwin, The Odd Woman

Lauren Groff, Fates and Furies

Jean Hegland, Into the Forest

Patricia Highsmith, The Price of Salt

Alice Hoffman, White Horses

Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God

Shirley Jackson, We Have Always Lived in the Castle

P.D. James, Devices and Desires

Erica Jong, Fear of Flying

Miranda July, No One Belongs Here More Than You

Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible

Nicole Kraus, The History of Love

Jhumpa Lahiri, Interpreter of Maladies

Jhumpa Lahiri, Unaccustomed Earth

Anne Lamott, Bird By Bird

Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

Doris Lessing, The Diary of a Good Neighbour

Doris Lessing, The Golden Notebook

Clarice Lispector, The Hour of the Star

Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca

Daphne du Maurier, My Cousin Rachel

Grace Metalious, Place

Mary McCarthy, The Group

Elizabeth McCracken, The Giants House

Carson McCullers, The Member of the Wedding

Anne Michaels, Fugitive Pieces

Nancy Mitford, Love in a Cold Climate

Nancy Mitford, The Pursuit of Love

L.M. Montgomery, Emily of New Moon

Toni Morrison, Beloved

Alice Munro, Collected Stories

Iris Murdoch, The Sacred and Profane Love Machine

Alissa Nutting, Tampa

Joyce Carol Oates, Blonde

Flannery O’Connor, Everything That Rises Must Converge

Jenny Offill, Dept. Of Speculation

Mary Oliver, Upstream

Tillie Olsen, I Stand Here Ironing

Tillie Olsen, Tell Me a Riddle

Cynthia Ozick, The Pagan Rabbi

Cynthia Ozick, The Shawl

Grace Paley, Collected Stories

Gail Parent, The Best Laid Plans

Gail Parent, Sheila Levine is Dead and Living in NY

Ann Patchett, Bel Canto

Elena Poniatowska, Tlatelolco

Annie Proulx, The Shipping News

Mary Rakow, The Memory Room

Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter series

Lore Segal, Her First American

Marie Semple, Where’d You Go, Bernadette?

Denzy Senna, Symtomatic

Carol Shields, The Stone Diaries

Sei Shonagon, The Pillow Book

Mona Simpson, Anywhere But Here

May Sinclair, A Cure of Souls

Jane Smiley, A Thousand Acres

Patti Smith, Just Kids

Zadie Smith, On Beauty

Murial Spark, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie

Amy Tan, The Joy Luck Club

Barbara Trapido, Brother of the More Famous Jack

Joanna Trollope, Other People’s Children

Joanna Trollope, The Rector’s Wife

Ann Tyler, The Homesick Restaurant

Alice Walker, The Color Purple

Helene Wecker, The Golem and the Jinni

Vita Sackville-West, All Passion Spent

Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth

Edith Wharton, The Custom of the Country

Isabel Wilkerson, Warmth of Other Suns

Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

E.H. Young, Miss Mole

The Telegraph

28 of the best books for your summer holiday

The great explorer Thor Heyerdahl, when asked to consider the question of borders, answered: “I have never seen one. But I have heard that they exist in the minds of some people.”

Heyerdahl, I think, would nonetheless have enjoyed two of the timeliest travel books to have appeared in the past six months; books that I would urge you to make room for wherever you’re heading this summer.

Italy

Devotees of Elena Ferrante, author of the bestselling novels of female friendship in post-war Naples, have readily accepted her argument that she writes under a pseudonym because it’s essential to her work. They were outraged when a journalist claimed last autumn to have “unmasked” the writer. In Frantumaglia (Europa Editions), a collection of letters and interviews whose publication was overshadowed by the row, Ferrante offers a glimpse into her working life and the way in which jumbled fragments of memory find fictional form.

The Daily Star

What’s in a pseudonym?

Sarah Anjum Bari

A few years ago, I collaborated with a friend to write about the double standards young girls face in Bangladesh. We wrote about how it’s a health risk for young boys to smoke, but immoral and scandalous for girls to do the same; how the girls we interviewed aren’t allowed to make plans after a certain time of the day, while their younger brothers come and go as they please. The article received 2.5k shares online when it was published in this newspaper’s SHOUT magazine. The irony? I wrote it under a pseudonym. I didn’t have the courage, at the time, to tag my name onto something so controversial yet so relevant to my own life.

Anonymity can be liberating. The pen names Currer and Ellis Bell, respectively, allowed Charlotte and Emily Bronte to use influences from their local neighbourhood to craft Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. George Elliott, the famed writer of Middlemarch, was actually Mary Anne Evans. The aliases allowed these women to break into a literary market that was rigidly male-dominated at the time, giving us some of the seminal works of 19th-century western literature. In the decade that followed, Charles Dodgson disrobed the identity of a mathematician to write Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland as Lewis Carroll. The gender-neutral initials of EL James allowed the writer of the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy to engage with a particularly notorious topic. And closer to home, Rabindranath Tagore composed poetry in the literary language of Brajabuli as Bhanusimha, a name he found in the torn leaves of an old library book.

The removal of a name tag brings on the freedom to shift genres, write from the perspective of a different gender, or tackle topics that are particularly sensitive or experimental. This makes the pseudonym itself a powerful and useful tool. But it’s troubling to think of how we, as readers, often make writers feel like they can’t use their own identity for their work. A talented young writer I know prefers to use a pseudonym for his published fiction pieces. He doesn’t want to have to answer probing questions, from relatives in particular, about what his stories might mean about his personal life. Why these questions? Why do fictional works lead to assumptions about an author’s private life? Given that this is a concern I’ve heard on several occasions, it forces us to notice how the hasty judgments and prying nature typical of our society are stifling the creative spirit of so many aspiring young artists in our midst.

“You’re missing out on the perspective that an opposite sex can provide. Much, much more importantly, you’re closing yourself off to a plethora of ideas that have nothing to do with gender, because there’s no such thing as a woman’s topic or a man’s topic, contrary to archaic belief.

And then there’s the battle of the sexes. Joanne Rowling, as we know, was advised by Bloomsbury to use the initials JK for the Harry Potter series to appeal to a wider audience—boys in particular, who are seemingly more likely to read books by male authors. This was later supported by a 2014 Goodreads survey, which found 90 percent of men’s 50 most read books that year to have been written by men. Eighty percent of a woman writer’s audience was similarly found to comprise of women.

It’s one thing to respond better to a writer of one’s own gender; even natural, one might say. But to deliberately choose not to read works written by a certain kind of author deprives both parties. You’re robbing an artist of the chance to share the product of their hard work with you, work that might be just the kind of thing you’re looking for. You’re missing out on the perspective that an opposite sex can provide. Much, much more importantly, you’re closing yourself off to a plethora of ideas that have nothing to do with gender, because there’s no such thing as a woman’s topic or a man’s topic, contrary to archaic belief. Some of the biggest bestsellers of the past few years span a range of topics written by women. Gillian Flynn created an entire genre of mystery/thriller, writing from both a man and a woman’s perspective, in Gone Girl. Zadie Smith has been detangling the nuances of race, identity and academia since the publication of White Teeth to more recently Swing Time. And authors like Jhumpa Lahiri and Arundhati Roy have become icons in their rich portrayal of South Asian history. On the flipside, some of the most iconic women in literature have been created by men, from Anna Karenina (Tolstoy) to Madame Bovary (Flaubert) to Binodini (Tagore). Even Hazel Grace Lancaster (John Green), if you like your YA fiction.

Casual Vacancy was the first book JK Rowling published in her own name after the end of the Harry Potter series. It didn’t work out so well, unfortunately. But, instead of hanging it up simply as a hit-and-miss, readers were quick to pass the judgment that all she’s capable of handling is the magical world. Hence the creation of Robert Galbraith, a nom de plume she took up yet again, for a fairly successful crime series known as the Cormoran Strike novels (starring a gritty male detective, FYI).

But perhaps the most extreme example of pseudonyms gone wrong is that of Elena Ferrante. An Italian writer who kept her identity hidden since her first book of the Neapolitan Novels, Ferrante, in many of her interviews, has repeatedly emphasised how the pseudonym allows her to concentrate on her writing, to make her literary identity exclusively about her work. Last year, however, an Italian journalist set about revealing her real name, which set off a media explosion into the personal sphere that she had determinedly preserved since 1992.

As much as we’d like to believe that times have changed, these subtle instances of gender bias, intrusiveness, and hasty judgments continue to stifle creative pursuits in our midst even today. We’re all too quick to judge that a woman can write about only a woman and a man about just a man, that an author of magical realism cannot handle crime fiction, and that reading an author’s works entitles us to pry into what is off limits.

But the joke’s on us—the loss, of missing out on fascinating, manifold literary realms, entirely ours.

Electric Lit

11 of the Worst Weddings in Literature

Jilted wives, drunk uncles & seagreen chiffon — it’s wedding season!

It’s wedding season. These days, that doesn’t mean a few DJ-ed buffets at the local rental hall. Going to a wedding, more and more often, means getting on a plane to some far-flung destination, driving to the middle of nowhere to drink specialty cocktails in a rustic chic barn, and taking silly-sexy pictures in a photo booth so as to capture the one use of your very expensive bridesmaid dress or groomsmen’s suit.

If you’re feeling exhausted, bored, or financially depleted, take heart — literature has come up with weddings that can far outweigh the horror of the parties you’ve been to. These 11 novels remind us that, at the very least, we can be happy that the bride and groom came willingly and without the baggage of a still-living spouse, and the guests, while drunk, were not also out to kill.

There is something perversely satisfying about seeing an event that is so heavy with expectations get trashed, and in these cases, it is illuminating too. These authors don’t accept weddings as the flower-strewn manifestation of assured romantic bliss. They take one of humanity’s oldest customs and scrutinize and question it, and the results, while not always pretty, are always interesting.

2. My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante

The first book of Ferrante’s Neapolitan series concludes with Lila’s wedding to Stefano Carracci, who is the heir to the local grocery store and, in what should have been a huge red flag, the son of Don Achille, the man who terrified Lila and Elena as children. Before the boozy wedding feast is over, young Lila — and she is still so very young — realizes that Stefano is just like his father and the wedding was a terrible mistake, one that will haunt her for the rest of her life.

Literary Hub

10 BOOKS ON ECSTATICALLY MAD WOMEN

JESSIE CHAFFEE READS DEEPLY INTO EMPTINESS, FEAR, DESIRE, AND ELATION

July 3, 2017  By Jessie Chaffee

When I was 22, I developed an eating disorder, an experience equal parts horror and euphoria that took me outside of myself, turning me into someone I wasn’t, or perhaps revealing a part of me that had always been there. Intellectually, I recognized that I was negating, erasing, and isolating myself. But my emotional experience was not one of loneliness or loss. On the contrary, I often felt painfully clear, high, satiated, connected to something more than myself. I felt ecstatic.

By the time I sought help, I was whittled down, haunted, and searching for a way to describe those months when I had disappeared from my life. I had always identified as a writer, but anorexia stripped me of words, alienating me from the world as I previously understood it and from the language I used to give shape to that world. In its wake, I was searching for a new language, one that, as a lifelong reader, I hadn’t yet witnessed in literature.

And then a close friend handed me a copy of Jean Rhys’s Good Morning, Midnight. Like many people, I had read Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea, a retelling of Jane Eyre from the perspective of Bertha (aka, “the madwoman in the attic”), but this novel, published decades earlier, was different. It was unlike anything I’d ever read in its depiction of a woman who is losing herself to the seduction of alcoholism, the ghosts of her past, and the increasingly self-destructive decisions she makes as she tries to survive both. What was new was not the content but the telling. Rhys collapses the distance between the reader and her protagonist. We don’t witness Sasha’s descent; we live it. We feel the too-small dirty hotel room, the jeers and stares of strangers who may or may not actually be there, the grief and weight of memory. And we feel the messy intermingling of emptiness, fear, desire, and elation as reality unravels, and language with it, along the beautiful and horrific knife-edge of addiction.

Good Morning, Midnight gave me not only a mirror for my own experience, but it altered completely the type of work I wanted to produce as a writer. I consumed the slim, used paperback in a single sitting—and consumed is the right word, as it nourished me, became a part of me, and then left me hungry for more writing like it. From Rhys, it was not a far leap to Marguerite Duras and then Elena Ferrante and Claire Messud, all women who write about women on the fringes grappling with the most foundational questions of meaning and identity. These writers deal in contradictions, in the seductive gray areas where the high lives, in the things that might destroy us but that we nevertheless pursue. Their protagonists are complicated, flawed, brilliant, extreme, and, quite often, ecstatic.

I began writing my novel out of a desire to be in conversation with those writers, and to give language, through fiction, to an experience that had left me mute. In the writing I realized that there was another group of women writers whose stories I needed to read—the Catholic mystical saints, women who claimed a direct relationship to God through their ecstatic visions, and who recorded those visions in fiery and sensual language. Their vitae read like the ancestors of Rhys and Ferrante. Their ecstasies were not always celebrated—they were also used as evidence that they were possessed, deceitful, or calculating in their ambition. But like the protagonists of their contemporary counterparts, the saints’ telling leaves no room for doubts as we live the experiences with them.

Below are my favorite works about ecstatic women brought to life by my favorite women writers. These narratives don’t grant us the safety of distance or room for judgment, but place us within the protagonists’ realities, daring us to feel what they feel, and suggesting that if ecstasy is madness, then we the readers are mad too. 

Elena Ferrante, The Days of Abandonment, tr. Ann Goldstein

Written before the uber-popular Neopolitan novels, this slim, visceral work follows a woman’s violent struggle to make meaning in the chaos and isolation that follows the dissolution of her marriage:

I was not the woman who breaks into pieces under the blows of abandonment and absence, who goes mad, who dies. Only a few fragments had splintered off, for the rest I was well. I was whole and whole I would remain. To those who hurt me, I react giving back in kind. I am the queen of spades, I am the wasp that stings, I am the dark serpent. I am the invulnerable animal who passes through the fire and is not burned.

The Hindu

Around the world in eight books

Mini Kapoor

A reading list in defence of the ‘global novel’

If by chance you are still looking for a summer reading list, Adam Kirsch’s brilliant, and short, inquiry, The Global Novel: Writing the World in the 21st Century, may provide one. Many of these are beloved texts that have been around for years, but his particular line of analysis to defend “the global novel” brings them together in a pattern that makes a reread a relook: Orhan Pamuk’s Snow, Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84, Roberto Bolano’s 2666, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah, Mohsin Hamid’s The Reluctant Fundamentalist, Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake, Michel Houellebecq’s The Possibility of an Island, and Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels.

Stripped for export?

Take Murakami, around whom speculation settles as a yearly ritual in the days leading to the announcement of the Nobel Prize, but whose writing is sometimes criticised back home in Japan for Japanese prose that is, as Kirsch puts it, “stripped for export”. It is not that simple. Comparing Murakami’s magnum opus 1Q84 to Pamuk’s Snow, Kirsch notes that while the plot and the characters of the latter are necessarily particular to Turkey, “the urban isolates of 1Q84 could almost as easily be living in New York or London” as in Tokyo. This, he concludes, is not a distortion inflicted by Murakami’s vaulting ambition to be something to everyone, but is perhaps a reflection of the common threads in our lives and curiosities worldwide.

He calls Adichie’s and Hamid’s novels “migrant literature”, different from the immigrant literature of writers such as Jhumpa Lahiri, whereby “America is a stage of life rather than a final destination” in the characters’ lives. As a contrast, there are the novels of Ferrante, whose success as a global writer is intriguing. Her novels are very strongly located in Naples, she uses local dialects in the original Italian, and she refuses to reveal her identity, thereby denying her overseas publishers the big marketing essential, the book tour.

In their particularity, her novels speak to common human emotions, of course, but they also, Kirsch helps us understand, suggest we must “see fates in an international perspective”, just as the other books listed here do. His tour is an invitation to read some of these books, and work out our individual appraisals of the appeal, and importance, of the global novel.

From the Front Porch

Episode 125 || June Reading Recap

It’s hot as something down here in the South, and Chris and Annie are back to talk about what they read in June. It was a light month of the highest quality. Also, Chris Pine: hot or not? And happy anniversary, Harry Potter.

Annie read:
The End We Start From by Megan Hunter (on sale November 7)
Almost Sisters by Joshilyn Jackson (on sale July 11)
Heating and Cooling by Beth Ann Fennelly (on sale October 10)
Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng (on sale (on sale September 12)
Theft by Finding by David Sedaris
The Story of a New Name by Elena Ferrante

Chris read:
Marriage of a Thousand Lies by SJ Sindu

Hey, did you know that we read and recap books in literally every episode of this podcast, not just the ones labeled “Reading Recap”? I just want to make sure that you do because we have so many recommendations for you all the time always and want you to enjoy!

BBC Radio 4

The wonderful thing about being a reader is that even when you’re familiar with the classics of English literature, there are still bookshelves all over the world to explore. These writers, featured in Radio 4’s Reading Europe series, are some of the most famous novelists in their own countries – but the rest of the world has yet to discover them.

Here’s why you should read them.

Italy: My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante

Ferrante fever has been sweeping Europe for the past few years, and reached a fever pitch when journalist Claudio Gatti claimed to have “unmasked” the reclusive author. However, fans remain more interested in her novels than her life stories. In My Brilliant Friend, we’re introduced to Elena and Lila, whose friendship is one of the most believable in fiction – they’re not braiding each other’s hair at sleepovers, they’re jealously competing to escape the neighbourhood of Naples and trying to avoid the attentions of local gangsters.

Look out for: Lila’s wedding – it’s so tense and troubling that it makes the wedding sequence in The Godfather look like it was guest directed by Richard Curtis.

The Rumpus

The Rumpus Mini-Interview Project #90: Erika Carter

BY

Rumpus: In Lucky You, there are tidbits of information about the characters’ pasts. There are time gaps between sections. There is a lot that goes unspoken. This seems to require you, as the author, to have a lot of trust in the reader. Can you talk a bit about this relationship of trust between author and reader?

Carter: When I was writing this, I had no agent or publisher, and was far from even thinking about having readers. So, that was freeing, because I wasn’t trying to please anyone. It’s interesting now, though, because I’m writing my second book, and I’m still not trying to please anyone—I feel like I’m just writing what has to be said, in the best way I know how to say it.

Lucky You is definitely not for everyone, but I would never want to write a book for everyone. I’d like to quote Elena Ferrante here, from her interview with the Paris Review, on this subject:

I employ all the strategies I know to capture the reader’s attention, stimulate curiosity, make the page as dense as possible and as easy as possible to turn. But once I have the reader’s attention I feel it is my right to pull it in whichever direction I choose. I don’t think the reader should be indulged as a consumer, because he isn’t one. Literature that indulges the tastes of the reader is a degraded literature. My goal is to disappoint the usual expectations and inspire new ones.

On Our Minds

Our favorite fictional beaches

 Morgan Baden June 23rd, 2017

I grew up in a beach town; the salt water is in my blood. I like to read “beach reads” (whatever they are) all year round. But now that it’s summer, I feel free to shine some sunlight on all the books I love that take place at the beach!

From board books to wordless picture books, from classic middle grade novels to contemporary YAs, from evocative literary fiction to adult thrillers, there are beachy books for every type of reader. So even if you’re land-locked this summer, you can feel the sand in your toes when you pick up one of these titles.

Here are some of my all-time favorite books that take place at the beach:

(…) And Julia chose Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels. Much of the second book, The Story of a New Name, takes place in an Italian beach town. (See my note above about Italian beaches!) Julia says, “I love Ferrante’s writing because she can sustain long periods of intense human emotion for hundreds of pages, and it’s riveting and exhausting. There’s no better example of this intensity than during Lenu and Lila’s summer on the beach in The Story of a New Name.”

Cannonball Read

The Review of the Great Books

The Story of a New Name, Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay, The Story of the Lost Child (The Neapolitan Novels #2-4) by Elena Ferrante

I really, really liked Elena Ferrante’s My Brilliant Friend, which is an incredibly blase way to compliment a book so raw and confrontational and, well, brilliant. The remaining three books in the Neapolitan Novels series build on the strong momentum established by the first and, in the process, continue to be some of the most poignant reading I’ve experienced in ages. The feelings that these books provoked in me were strong and visceral, inflamed and tender in their ebb and flow. These are not feel-good stories, but they don’t feel gratuitous in their misery, either. As a woman, my vicarious anger has an undercurrent of resignation, because each injustice and pointed strike at Lila and Elena — the character — (but also, all of the other Neapolitan women in the books) rings a little too true to feel like emotional manipulation.

Taking place from the 1950’s all the way through the 2010’s, beyond coming of age into mature adulthood, the series chronicles the personal and professional achievements and failures of two very intelligent women who are both products of their time, but who also rise above the expectations of the era and of the microculture in their misogynistic, violent Naples neighborhood. For all that they are exceptional, though, the neighborhood has indelibly tagged them. Lila, despite her potential, is never able to leave, while Elena, despite a fancy education and a high-class marriage, is still condescended to because of her background, never allowed to forget how she is different.

The Story of a New Name takes place immediately after Lila’s marriage to the neighborhood grocer, the young man in charge of one of only two of the neighborhood’s prosperous families. Getting bogged down in the details of the plot of each book is kind of missing the point, so I will try to avoid doing it, but I mention the marriage because this is the single moment that changes the two women’s lives. It is the first and most concrete piece of evidence that the lives they are “meant” to have, as women, are not for them. Lila begins chafing at her vows and new identity (her new name) before the ceremony is even over, and the rest of this installment is, for her, about how she struggles to carve out necessary freedoms for herself, both inside and outside of her marriage. Meanwhile, Elena has left the neighborhood to attend secondary school and university. Academically, there is no denying her talent, but she has what we would, now, instantly identify as impostor syndrome, in spades, and she is nearly undone on multiple occasions by a crippling sense of inauthenticity. When she speaks among her educated friends, she always feels like she is pretending at intelligence, only hiding her poor vulgarity; when she as at home in Naples she simultaneously desires to impress with her accomplishments and be accepted as one of them, unchanged. It’s the story of moving within of two communities, but not truly being a part of either.

Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay is a masterful thesis on the feminist axiom “the personal is the political.” It puts a point on the inseparable bond between the women’s professional endeavors and the sociopolitical mores they engage with. Discovering feminism in an official capacity, Elena incisively observes the relationships between women and men in her writing and is struck by the messiness of applying what should be clear-headed logic on the subject to her own relationships with men. As much as this book is about Elena and Lila’s marriages and families, though, it is still at its core very much about the friendship between the two women. In Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay, it is an undeniably strained relationship, but the strength in their bond is something beyond amiable appeasement and shared interests. There is something deeper and more elemental that binds them. At times, you wonder why they still bother being friends, with the various trespasses, minor and otherwise, that they commit against each other. But Elena is forcefully inspired by Lila; she’s an unyielding, driving specter in Elena’s creative mind and she represents the well of genius that Elena is only able to access when she’s at her most honest and candid.

A notable condition of the second and third books is that Elena and Lila are separated, so a lot of what Elena reports about Lila’s life is second-hand information, information she finds out much later and is writing in retrospect, or information that was taken straight from a diary that Lila gives Elena for “safekeeping.” This all worked for me to keep Lila involved in the story and to keep Elena connected to her, but finally in The Story of the Lost Child the women are together again, living in Naples. The official reunion is ostensibly a happy one, but many of their interactions remain terse. Elena, who has always written from the perspective of someone who is constantly compared to her friend and found wanting, now feels increasingly compelled to justify herself and her choices to Lila in the flesh. Raising their children together, Elena struggles with how, despite their wildly different paths, they have still ended up in the same place. She interrogates the decisions that led her, a moderately successful woman with her own notoriety, to still have been so moved by men that her and Lila, now both raising children as single women, appear on the surface level to have minimized themselves and their ambitions so to remain comfortably in the neighborhood, just as all of the other girls without the same intelligence and drive did. It’s too reductive to say that it’s merely sad, or disappointing, that Elena winds up where she did, or that Lila’s growing position in the neighborhood seems to come at the direct expense of Elena’s current popularity as an author, as if they sit on opposite ends of a see-saw and one is always looking down on the other if either of them is to be much off the ground.

Ferrante’s character Elena is a writer, and she writes a lot of this meta-criticism about the flaws in her writing. Primarily, despite Elena’s formal education surpassing Lila’s by several stages, Elena attributes to Lila’s writing an unparalleled quality of natural brevity. Elena is always struck by her own writing having a false affect, while revering the clarity of Lila’s unstudied prose as the epitome of skill. As a reader, I’m struck by Ferrante’s skill with language, and — with this feeling possibly being magnified by Ferrante being a pseudonymous author, and wondering how much of this work is auto/biographical — I can’t help but notice that the lauded qualities of Lila’s writing appear to more or less describe Ferrante’s. (Or Elena’s voice, as depicted by Ferrante. How meta is this exactly? Is this Ferrante suggesting that Elena more successfully adopted those attributes of her friend’s writing than she gave herself credit for? Or that it was Elena herself whose writing had those characteristics, but her bouts of inferiority blinded her to it? Or is it Ferrante, herself, at the top line, voicing her authorial insecurities through her character?) In any case, the writing is magnificent. As I’ve seen it said, the pages practically turn themselves. The language is frugal but expansive inside the reader’s mind — a true case of “leaving it to the imagination.” I’m continually astonished at how much Ferrante does with so little, syntactically.

If you weren’t put off by this unhelpfully vague review, I urge you to read these books. I have tried to touch on a few reasons why I find them so excellent, but even more than those definable things there is just something about them overall that makes them unforgettable.

The Guardian

Elena Ferrante’s novels evoke the Neapolitan city in all its drama, including the food, and inspire a charity cucina povera feast of succulent greens and juicy sausages typical of the region
by Rachel Roddy – 21 June 2017

Sometimes we saw him climbing up the scaffolding of new buildings that were rising floor by floor, or in a hat made of newspaper, in the sun, eating bread with sausage and greens during his lunch break…”

Even though it is the first of four Neapolitan Novels, finishing My Brilliant Friendby Elena Ferrante left me bereft – or, as my nine-year-old self once said, “end-of-book lonely”. Also it left me feeling guilty: I galloped through the last 60 pages in much the same way I often eat food – greedily and not really chewing properly. What happened between Fernando and Silvio Solara? Why was Marcello wearing the shoes Stefano bought? Answers – and no doubt more questions – would come with book two, which could be bought from the English bookshop near the Spanish steps… It was only 4:30pm: I had more than enough time to get there. Or was that hasty? I would read the last 40 pages again. On the train to Naples.

It is not just Ferrante. Journalist Rachel Donadio is also responsible for my Sunday whim. A few years ago, she wrote an article in the New York Times called Seduced By Naples in which she describes her enduring love for the city, and how, when living in Rome, she would often escape to Naples – “a surefire adrenaline rush, a slap in the face, a semi-failed state only an hour south by train”. Naples had slapped me some years before I read the article – it was the city I arrived in when I first came to Italy – but her words persist, as good writing can, and tempt me. It takes an hour and six minutes to get from Roma Termini to Napoli Central if you catch the Frecciarossa, which I did, leaving a recuperating five-year-old and patient partner watching The Incredibles, beside them a floor fan with a death rattle. “The last train back is at 9:37pm,” Vincenzo reminded me as I closed the front door. “The one after that is 1am,” echoed down the lift shaft with me.

There is nothing like a train journey with a good book, your eyes on the page, but also aware of the world flashing past. The 60 pages reread, and mind now on a Napoli-style charity dinner I was going to help cook in London the next day, I flipped back through the book. References to food punctuate My Brilliant Friend, but in a restrained way – lean details such as the “yellow peach” given to Elena by her dad – which turns out to be a revealing part of Ferrante’s lucid and compelling storytelling. As I walked around the ancient heart of the city on Sunday, all the details were there: a woman washing vegetables, the yellow peach, the scent of frying pizza and so much fruit on a hot day. All this mingled with the the kids on the hot steps, washing; almost violent beauty, breeze blowing in from the sea. “What a sea… the waves rolled in like blue metal tubes carrying an egg white foam on their peaks, then broke in a thousand glittering splinters”.

Then we have Pasquale, the son of a carpenter, in a hat made of newspaper, in the sun, eating greens and sausages during his lunch break. The greens Ferrante mentions are no doubt friarielli. Known as broccoletti in Rome, cime di rapa in Puglia and rapini in Tuscany, friarielli are a slightly bitter cooking green related to both broccoli and turnip tops, with softly spiky leaves and scattered clusters of broccoli-like buds. Opinions and thoughts about how best to prepare these greens are strongly held, and nowhere more than Napoli, where they are often cooked with sausages.

As we prepare the dinner in east London a day later, Paolo, the Neapolitan chef at Campania & Jones just off London’s Columbia Road, warns me never to boil friarielli. Trim rigorously to get rid of tough bits, he continues, then cook them in lots of oil, with chilli, garlic and white wine until tender, then add the sausages.

Not that we have friarielli. It is not the season. But with Ferrante in mind we are cooking greens with sausages. Tenderstem broccoli can tolerate a par boil. We re-cook the florets with olive oil, garlic and chilli until tender – a good bed for meaty sausages. Paolo also prepares tortelli stuffed with aubergine, sartus of rice that seem like little red sandcastles in a puddle of tomato sea, fried dough balls called zeppole, and marinated vegetables. A good cook is a curious one and never too proud to learn something new, he reminds me, then laughs.

The small kitchen and back room are overflowing with goodness: crates of date-shaped tomatoes, cherries, bulbous onions the colour of a bishop’s cassock. Two caprese (chocolate torte) balance on a window ledge, sloshing tubs of putty-coloured batter and wet dough. Containers are brimming with grilled aubergine slices in olive oil. The stove seems alive, sputtering: “Passing by you caught a whiff of spices, of olives and salami, of fresh bread, of pork fat and crackling that made you hungry.” And not just for food.

Sausages and greens

Serves 4
800g broccoli
6-8 tbsp olive oil
1-2 garlic cloves
A small red chilli, finely chopped
Salt
White wine (optional)
4–8 pork sausages

1 If you are using broccoli, romanesco, sprouting broccoli or tenderstem, trim and cut into florets, then parboil. If you are using broccoletti, friarielli or rapini, just trim away all the tough parts.

2 Warm the oil in a large frying pan. Peel and crush the garlic for a milder flavour; chop it for a fiercer one – then add to the pan with the broccoli, chilli and a pinch of salt. The par-boiled broccoli will need a few minutes until is is ready. Uncooked greens will need longer – and possibly some wine and time under a lid. It should be tender and tangled in the end.

3 Keep an eye on the greens and taste now and then. Cook the sausages in another frying pan or under the grill, then unite them with the greens and leave to mingle for a bit. Serve hot or at room temperature, with bread … possibly wearing a paper hat.

  • Rachel Roddy is an award-winning food writer based in Rome and the author of Five Quarters: Recipes and Notes from a Kitchen in Rome (Saltyard); @racheleats