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480 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2003
She said that inside her she had a frantumaglia, a jumble of fragments. The frantumaglia depressed her. Sometimes it made her dizzy, sometimes it made her mouth taste like iron. It was the word for a disquiet not otherwise definable, it referred to a miscellaneous crowd of things in her head, debris in a muddy water of the brain. The frantumaglia was mysterious, it provoked mysterious actions, it was the source of all suffering not traceable to a single obvious cause...Often it made her weep, and since childhood the word has stayed in my mind to describe, in particular, a sudden fit of weeping for no evident reason: frantumaglia tears.
I haven't written two books in ten years, I've written and rewritten many. But Troubling Love and The Days of Abandonment seemed to me the ones that most decisively stuck a finger in certain wounds I have that are still infected, and did so without keeping a safe distance. At other times, I've written about clean or happily healed wounds with the obligatory detachment and the right words. But then I discovered that is not my path.
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. I've discovered, by publishing, that there is a certain relief in the fact that the moment the text becomes a printed book it goes elsewhere. Before, it was the text that was pestering me; now I'd have to run after it. I decided not to.
...I wrote my book to free myself from it, not to be its prisoner.
The suffering of Delia, Olga, Leda is the result of disappointment. What they expected from life - they are women who sought to break with the tradition of their mothers and grandmothers - does not arrive. Old ghosts arrive instead, the same ones with whom the women of the past had to reckon. The difference is that these women don't submit to them passively. Instead, they fight, and they cope. They don't win, but they simply come to an agreement with their own expectations and find new equilibriums. I feel them not as women who are suffering but as women who are struggling.
Olga, on the other hand, is an educated woman of today, influenced by the battle against the patriarchy. She knows what can happen to her and tries not to be destroyed by abandonment. Hers is the story of how she resists, of how she touches bottom and returns, of how abandonment changes her without annihilating her.
Ferrante: The need for love is the central experience of our existence.However foolish it may seem, we feel truly alive only when we have an arrow in our side and that we drag around night and day, everywhere we go. The need for love sweeps away every other need and, on the other hand, motivates all our actions.
Individuals and cities without love are a danger to themselves and others.
I think our sexuality is all still to be recounted and that, especially in this context, the rich male literary tradition constitutes a huge obstacle [...] We, all of us women, need to build a genealogy of our own, one that will embolden us, define us, allow us to see ourselves outside the tradition through which men have viewed, represented, evaluated, and catalogued us - for millennia. Theirs is a potent tradition, rich with splendid works, but one which has excluded much, too much, of what is ours. To narrate thoroughly, freely - even provocatively - our own "more than this" is important: it contributes to the drawing of a map of what we are or what we want to be.
What does Elena Ferrante think about social questions like euthanasia? ... And, more generally, doesn't she think that for an intellectual (hence also for writer) it's important (if not in fact a duty) to participate in the public debate on the great subjects of civic life?Her answer to this and other questions is hostile-inscrutable: Life is pure suffering. Don't ask me to resort to pat phrases. I will not tell you a second time. Leave me alone. Being an author is hell. [paraphrasi!]