Compared with Ferrante, Thomas Pynchon is a publicity profligate.~snip~What she looks like, what her real name is, when she was born, how she currently lives—these things are all unknown.
The cover art, and you know I’m heavily swayed by cover art, is redolent of cozy romance novels for middle aged, middle to upper class, suburban, mortgage heavy, B.A.ed, M.A.ed, overworked mothers who are, perhaps, unhappily or at least dully married.
The art doesn’t speak to me. If the books weren’t, all of a sudden, out of seeming nowhere, glutting up the bestseller list, I wouldn’t be giving them a second look.
In any case, could the cover art mebbe be misleading? I read a few different reviews and, yes, it seems the illustrations are fibbing! *gasp!*
These books are part of Ferrante’s Neapolitan Series – the tale of two girls, friends, from financially unblessed families. They grow up, make choices they come to seriously, totally regret – they evolve and shit happens. So it is sounding a bit Little Women-Jo Marsh-ish – you knowstories for adult girls who’ve discovered the prince is actually a dick and they, themselves, are more than just a wife/mother/daughter. OK. Yawn.
As soon as you read her fiction, Ferrante’s restraint seems wisely self-protective. Her novels are intensely, violently personal, and because of this they seem to dangle bristling key chains of confession before the unsuspecting reader.
How to explain the phenomenon of three of this same author’s works on the bestseller list at once and ongoing. Maybe all the local book clubs are reading them now. Boston is, when it comes right down to it, just a small town. Clubs feed off each other, pass things around.
//shrugs// I think I’ll hit the used bookstore later this week.