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Stephen's Reviews > The Story of the Lost Child
The Story of the Lost Child (Neapolitan Novels, #4)
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Now that I have finished reading everything by Elena Ferrante, I am going to try and summarize what reading her books has meant to me. Excuse the length, but this is the one writer I have been captivated by more than any other for the past several years. I began reading Ferrante’s novels in Spring 2013 and ended only now, Spring 2016. That makes it look like I’m an unbelievably slow reader. And perhaps I am, especially when I find what I’ve been looking for (same instinct applies to people or books � no rush necessary to unearth a secret when the feeling is right.) As for others, it seems like the feeling is once you’ve started reading the Neapolitan novels you can’t stop. I understand that desire to get to the end. However, I felt the need to resist a quick read for wishing to immerse myself in Ferrante’s imaginative world over time, to communicate with its characters, to marvel over the author and her remarkable powers of seduction.
When I first began I was stunned at how good Days of Abandonment was. At that time, only the first of the four Neapolitan novels were out. I enjoyed following the reviews on Days in a kind of amused way, for the way opinion was divided between those who thought Ferrante’s narrator was unhinged and those who understood her. I got it; I know exactly the kind of women she describes, and I have great sympathy for them. It excited me to see a writer addressing the sell-out we make on our creativity: opting for professional and marital success, emotional and sexual security over risk and truth-seeking. The latter, plainly, is not for everyone.
Ferrante, it was obvious from the opening pages, doesn’t provide the usual answers and consolations. She employs a conflicted narrator, and that’s what gives these stories their drive. Days is unique among novels I’ve read for its passion. The stunning energy that went into it is more diffuse throughout the Neapolitan epic. Add to this the question of female friendship and a layering of every stratum of Italian politics and culture, and the vertigo and passion of Days would seem forgotten among her readers, myself included. And yet to look back for a moment, it’s all there in Days. If someone cannot be bothered to read an 1,800-page epic novel about female friendship and choice, I’d say you can’t go wrong with Days: everything you need to know about Ferrante’s writing is found in that book. The rest is details.
One of the things that drives me bonkers about contemporary novels, especially American and British ones, is the oppressive status consciousness woven into the fabric of its every expression. It may be a minority taste but there are some of us who are actually interested in looking beyond riches and poverty, successes and failures, for the quality of a person and not the “self� they have forged into a position in society. It’s at that level Ferrante’s novels are pitched. We know someone. But the world isn’t about to slow down and cheer us for that knowledge. I love that aspect of her drama, her storytelling, and that she doesn’t succumb to the irony trap (rather than write it, she points to where irony exists).
Despite all Ferrante’s considerable strengths as a writer, there are the oddities. These books have zero instinct for humor or wit, a major oversight while reflecting on the human condition. Likewise, it is hard to imagine a man and a woman anywhere in her world actually enjoying the sex, and then cracking up about something someone said about an hour ago. Never mind laughing during sex, which is a surefire sign of love. As well, the plot twists were too much to swallow by the end of the third book, the sense that they were being made up to make a fourth. The scene in the fourth where a male character, the wonderful leftist (sarcasm), is caught getting it on with the house servant made me laugh, not the intended reaction, I’m sure. But these complaints are minor compared to my larger one.
Throughout the seven novels, we are being asked to think deeply about what is essentially a set of conventional choices and stories. Marriages fail, professional successes don’t turn out to be everything we had hoped. But in response to desired, conservative ways of life. It’s a curiosity why freedoms gained despite enormous obstacles aren’t valued even for a moment while an air of failure hangs over every page. The novels are essentially a spiritual crisis we never emerge from.
This leads to my biggest issue: Ferrante’s anonymity. I think it’s crucial we need to know who this woman is. More importantly, how much her biography inflects/reflects what she has to say. I respect her choice in one sense, that the vulgarity of catering to the marketplace in order to sell your work is a disgrace writers and artists ought to fight. So hooray for that. But until I find out how much this story relates to Ferrante’s life I am not going to waste any more time deciphering her philosophy. Because she definitely has an era-defining view on things. But from what position?
There are two that don’t easily mesh without distortion:
(1) If indeed these stories mirror Ferrante’s life albeit in fictional form, these novels will be a gold mine of information and analysis for women’s lives that reflects political & cultural commitment from the 1960s to the present-day.
(2) Or, If indeed these stories are merely an interpretation of the lives around Ferrante that she has witnessed, one in which her life itself is not at stake, a world she is merely commenting on, the value of these novels is meant for a much more sophisticated, yet limited audience.
If the answer to this question we are not supposed to ask is (2), my heart would sink. It would mean this is yet another academic passing judgment on ordinary women’s lives. Throughout these novels there is a flirtation with socialist and communist thought. Ordinarily these thinkers aren’t exactly warm to the bourgeois experience. Anyone who has read these novels knows that commitment is never rewarded. Sexual, political, aesthetic, religious commitment is all upended at one point or another. Marriage soon leads to domestic abuse; political commitment soon leads to thug violence; commitment to the arts (writing) is founded on a series of betrayals over time. If the answer is indeed (2) this would amount to a terrible, relentless, very specific critique about middle class women and their knack for compromise. Bad marriages, bad political ideas, bad writing, all based on skittish, timid foundations lacking conviction, you’ll get yours in the end, baby. It’s a brutal message if that’s indeed what is going on here.
Ferrante in interviews suggests (2) is the answer. Her response about whether this story is autobiographical is couched in the usual piety from literary figures about the life and the art not being one and the same. I really hope it is (1) but that’s just my heart speaking, not my head.
Elena Ferrante, whoever you are, you cannot avoid this question. As of last week you were seen commenting in The Guardian on whether Britain should leave the E.U. You who have argued throughout your work that commitment is futile. And yet here you are, telling others how to think and act. Tell us who you are. We really do need to know who to believe.
When I first began I was stunned at how good Days of Abandonment was. At that time, only the first of the four Neapolitan novels were out. I enjoyed following the reviews on Days in a kind of amused way, for the way opinion was divided between those who thought Ferrante’s narrator was unhinged and those who understood her. I got it; I know exactly the kind of women she describes, and I have great sympathy for them. It excited me to see a writer addressing the sell-out we make on our creativity: opting for professional and marital success, emotional and sexual security over risk and truth-seeking. The latter, plainly, is not for everyone.
Ferrante, it was obvious from the opening pages, doesn’t provide the usual answers and consolations. She employs a conflicted narrator, and that’s what gives these stories their drive. Days is unique among novels I’ve read for its passion. The stunning energy that went into it is more diffuse throughout the Neapolitan epic. Add to this the question of female friendship and a layering of every stratum of Italian politics and culture, and the vertigo and passion of Days would seem forgotten among her readers, myself included. And yet to look back for a moment, it’s all there in Days. If someone cannot be bothered to read an 1,800-page epic novel about female friendship and choice, I’d say you can’t go wrong with Days: everything you need to know about Ferrante’s writing is found in that book. The rest is details.
One of the things that drives me bonkers about contemporary novels, especially American and British ones, is the oppressive status consciousness woven into the fabric of its every expression. It may be a minority taste but there are some of us who are actually interested in looking beyond riches and poverty, successes and failures, for the quality of a person and not the “self� they have forged into a position in society. It’s at that level Ferrante’s novels are pitched. We know someone. But the world isn’t about to slow down and cheer us for that knowledge. I love that aspect of her drama, her storytelling, and that she doesn’t succumb to the irony trap (rather than write it, she points to where irony exists).
Despite all Ferrante’s considerable strengths as a writer, there are the oddities. These books have zero instinct for humor or wit, a major oversight while reflecting on the human condition. Likewise, it is hard to imagine a man and a woman anywhere in her world actually enjoying the sex, and then cracking up about something someone said about an hour ago. Never mind laughing during sex, which is a surefire sign of love. As well, the plot twists were too much to swallow by the end of the third book, the sense that they were being made up to make a fourth. The scene in the fourth where a male character, the wonderful leftist (sarcasm), is caught getting it on with the house servant made me laugh, not the intended reaction, I’m sure. But these complaints are minor compared to my larger one.
Throughout the seven novels, we are being asked to think deeply about what is essentially a set of conventional choices and stories. Marriages fail, professional successes don’t turn out to be everything we had hoped. But in response to desired, conservative ways of life. It’s a curiosity why freedoms gained despite enormous obstacles aren’t valued even for a moment while an air of failure hangs over every page. The novels are essentially a spiritual crisis we never emerge from.
This leads to my biggest issue: Ferrante’s anonymity. I think it’s crucial we need to know who this woman is. More importantly, how much her biography inflects/reflects what she has to say. I respect her choice in one sense, that the vulgarity of catering to the marketplace in order to sell your work is a disgrace writers and artists ought to fight. So hooray for that. But until I find out how much this story relates to Ferrante’s life I am not going to waste any more time deciphering her philosophy. Because she definitely has an era-defining view on things. But from what position?
There are two that don’t easily mesh without distortion:
(1) If indeed these stories mirror Ferrante’s life albeit in fictional form, these novels will be a gold mine of information and analysis for women’s lives that reflects political & cultural commitment from the 1960s to the present-day.
(2) Or, If indeed these stories are merely an interpretation of the lives around Ferrante that she has witnessed, one in which her life itself is not at stake, a world she is merely commenting on, the value of these novels is meant for a much more sophisticated, yet limited audience.
If the answer to this question we are not supposed to ask is (2), my heart would sink. It would mean this is yet another academic passing judgment on ordinary women’s lives. Throughout these novels there is a flirtation with socialist and communist thought. Ordinarily these thinkers aren’t exactly warm to the bourgeois experience. Anyone who has read these novels knows that commitment is never rewarded. Sexual, political, aesthetic, religious commitment is all upended at one point or another. Marriage soon leads to domestic abuse; political commitment soon leads to thug violence; commitment to the arts (writing) is founded on a series of betrayals over time. If the answer is indeed (2) this would amount to a terrible, relentless, very specific critique about middle class women and their knack for compromise. Bad marriages, bad political ideas, bad writing, all based on skittish, timid foundations lacking conviction, you’ll get yours in the end, baby. It’s a brutal message if that’s indeed what is going on here.
Ferrante in interviews suggests (2) is the answer. Her response about whether this story is autobiographical is couched in the usual piety from literary figures about the life and the art not being one and the same. I really hope it is (1) but that’s just my heart speaking, not my head.
Elena Ferrante, whoever you are, you cannot avoid this question. As of last week you were seen commenting in The Guardian on whether Britain should leave the E.U. You who have argued throughout your work that commitment is futile. And yet here you are, telling others how to think and act. Tell us who you are. We really do need to know who to believe.
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Dear god, how could I have not mentioned the astonishing humorlessness of these books in my review? Well said. Another thought I had while reading your take on this: I'm sure the answer to your question is (2), to a large extent. Much criticism of these books assumes that they're leftist and progressive, whereas a friend of mine who loves the books convinced me even before the last volume came out that they were at best pessimistic about leftist lifestyles, and most likely an attack on them--and, specifically, middle-class women. Though not, I think, for their compromises--rather, for any traces of liberalism. I look forward to seeing how these books, and the responses to them, look in the future. Should be very interesting.
Steve, perhaps if the writer doesn't really have anything to say at all, then definitely, they are not obligated if all they are providing are entertainments. But my sense is that Ferrante is coming down hard on an important part of society, and it's important that we know where she's coming from so that we can begin to grapple with this critique. Not to mention that we live in the biographical age, whether we like to admit it or not. There is a reason why writers like Mary McCarthy and Simone de Beauvoir only increased their value by addressing their biography through memoir, and some like Susan Sontag get criticized ruthlessly once they're gone for leaving that important part out. In Sontag's case, she made harsh judgments on others, like calling white people the cancer of the human race. It is important to know a bit where such judgments are coming from if we're to take them at all seriously. Without it these views are ripe for caricature, or worse. Or in the case of Daniel Mendelsohn and Sontag's gay life, he wanted to hear about this while she was alive, and was very eloquent about how this absence signifies the whole. It would be nice to live in a fantasy world where we don't pass judgment on others, but to my larger point, Ferrante is in fact doing that, I believe, passing judgment on a class of people. We really do need to see where she's coming from if we're going to have an answer for it while we're still alive. That said, thanks for your comment. Definitely go for Days first. My Brilliant Friend is one of her weaker ones, and you'll be obligated to read the rest to find out what the fuss is about. Days will give you enough. If that excites you definitely go for the rest. And when you do, let us know what you think.
Justin, to carry your response on your thread over here, I share your worry that these books will be an excuse for liberal feminism indulging in more of the same, when it comes to writers following in Ferrante's footsteps. If that's all they're interpreting these books as. Of the "these books insist that a woman's intellectual view of the world be valued" variety, as if that's never happened before, which I heard a writer say recently on a podcast. But let's have faith in the writers. I heard Megan O'Grady (who I mentioned in your thread) note that the male brutality seen in the books is not an instance of misogyny so much as that they are under the thumb of fascists and communists and the mafia too. For sure there will be a lot of dross pumped out in the name of Ferrante, but not before a few of the O'Gradys who will write while seeing the larger picture. "At best pessimistic about leftist lifestyles". "At best", that's right. Like how about the *in flagrante* scene you noted in your review. Note that it was the philandering leftist upon which the books center around giving it to the working class woman servant from behind, horror of all horrors. Sounds practically Clintonian. Talk about clumsy messaging!
I'll be on your side of the fence Justin if the answer to my question turns out to be (2) too. Let us wait and see.
"perhaps if the writer doesn't really have anything to say at all, then definitely, they are not obligated if all they are providing are entertainments."We'll have to disagree on this. In fact, your assertion strikes me as being way over the top. But thank you, I shall read Days first.
But we haven't discussed it, Steve. How could we disagree? : ) You stated your belief without saying why, and I went a little way explaining mine. I come out strong because I feel the separation of life and art argument one of extreme privilege. An artist enters public life, and then wishes to be above all forms of criticism. Sorry, I can't accept that.
"An artist enters public life, and then wishes to be above all forms of criticism."This seems to me to be a non sequitur. What I am talking about is not avoiding all forms of criticism, just the one kind: the one that requires of an author that he/she lays onto the table their personal life and explicates the relation it has with their work, so that a critic can then evaluate the work in terms of some kind of "authenticity". I freely admit that I am myself interested in the social and biographical context of works of art - that is evident from my reviews - but I don't think that any artist is obliged to provide that information or to accept that that kind of criticism is valid. No one is obliged to reveal personal, and in this case possibly emotionally extremely fraught information, even in this "biographical age" which strikes me as something closer to the "age of Jerry Springer" (not that I think in the least that you share Springer's audience's motivations). I welcome an author like de Beauvoir who feels that self-revelation is part of her project (and have read all of her autobiographical texts), but I also respect the wishes of authors like Pynchon and Salinger who prefer to let their work stand on its own. Only the authors of texts in which claims of authenticity are central are obliged to provide their personal bona fides in my view.
Interesting discussion. I'd like to know Ferrante's identity as much as anyone, living in this age when we interpret in light of biography. And her use of first person invites us to read her work as biographical. But Ferrante doesn't want us to know, and her reasons are interesting (to me), and not a cop-out, nor a wish to be above criticism. And, I think we have no choice but to read her work in both ways you (Stephen) describe: 1 - as potentially biographical, as firsthand experience by a participant, and 2 - as "interpreted" by a close-but-outside observer who is critiquing the world she describes. But even if it's the first stance - mirroring her life - I don't think that's any more of a "goldmine of information" than the second stance. Both stances involve observations and interpretation, and even autobiographical fiction is seen through a point of view. And once we eventually know her identity we'll still have questions about her interpretations and we will still have to grapple with her critiques.
I think it would be just as interesting if she turned out to be male. I hope she's not, but it would be interesting nonetheless because that would finally be the end to the whole discussion of whether one gender can fully enter into the experience of the other. And if it's an "academic exercise," it's an extraordinarily well imagined and empathetic one, so it does a writer's job extremely well, which is the adventure of literature. It's none of our business who she is. I'm with the let the work stand on its own crowd.
Steve, I am glad you expanded so that I could have a better idea what you meant. By "biographical age" I meant two related phenomena: (1) we no longer live in a time of history where a Jesus, or a Murasaki, or a Shakespeare can leave behind a bit of genius and while leaving behind almost no documentary evidence on who they were, what their physical being was like (their appearance, and so on). For at least 200 years now, in this democratic age, there is not a serious artist who isn't very much aware their remains will be picked over by journalists and academics and lawyers once they're gone. (2) beginning with mother and father photographing and videotaping our every development, every one of us is already infinitely more documented than Jesus, Murasaki or Shakespeare. Personally I pity the children their lack of freedom from constantly being watched over and documented. This makes it very difficult for anyone to be merely an "artist" - a bohemian, a punk, a renegade, or what have you - where the evidence might suggest otherwise. It's a big challenge, and I doubt there's anyone shooting for immortality who isn't aware of this shadow art mirroring their actual work. I think you've highlighted the common misconception that life feeding into art, and our need to know about that life for the art, is equated to prurience. That view is pretty consistently bourgeois. No one is required to answer anything about their personal life, obviously. I think we all know the difference between discretion and the freedom to say what we please. I might evade your questions about my sex life, but at least you'll know I have a position on it vis a vis the public's desire to know. But this aspect of the question is off-topic from what I raised above in relation to Ferrante. I'll better explain what I meant in response to Holly's comment below.
Think about it: when in our lives is biography NOT a consideration? When we apply for jobs we hand in our biography in the form of a resume. When we apply for college our applications list who we are. Why artists should be allowed to get a free pass on this is a little unfair to the rest of us, don't you think?
So my point is not about "authenticity". Biography is for matters of critical interpretation. It helps ground us in a point of view when we see the founders of the American republic held slaves (counter to certain claims for freedom), or that Jimi Hendrix served in the military prior to becoming a rock star (counter to the claim his Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock was anti-America) etc. Biography matters for Ferrante because she's making similarly big statements about the nature of freedom.
Holly, excellent points. I agree with you that the richness of interpretation is possible whether it's (1) or (2). And that it might even be possible to have both. It's just that I'm having a very difficult time wrapping my head around what it is she's trying to say about her two central characters. There's almost too much to interpret, because of this confusion, I think. It would be extremely helpful to know if she's implicating herself in the society she largely condemns, or is speaking about it from a privileged, distant viewpoint. In interviews she shows a strong engagement with feminist literature (which you highlighted with the n + 1 piece you quote). She has also said professional women are the ones she knows and appreciates best (so do I, for the most part). And yet like Justin says above, I think we are being misguided if we see these books through the liberal, feminist lens; there are strongly conservative elements here. All in all, I am having a difficult time knowing what to think about the characters because the books are constantly toggling between the subjective and objective viewpoints. But like you say, maybe that will all be a part of the richness of interpretation soon to come.
Claudia, the whole "Is Ferrante a male?" thing was pretty depressing. The question would never be asked the other way around. In my naivete I used to marvel at how women writers could write male psychologies so well, as if they were able to inhabit our minds too. Then my romanticism about how novels were written was shattered when I realized it wasn't one man or woman and the world, but a spouse or a lover nearby reading the work chapter by chapter. "What would you do in that situation?" "I'd dump him. No woman would ever stand for that." "Really? Tell me what you mean." And so works progress toward gender equity. About works standing alone. Sure, if we're casual readers, then leave the authors to their own business. But there are some of us who aren't just into a pleasant reading experience, but wish to seek out the meaning of what we're experiencing through engaged reading. In that case, few critics ever leave out the social context. Whether it's Emily Dickinson, Virginia Woolf or Sylvia Plath, I think it's only natural to look to the life for clues to the passion & the genius. Ferrante may be the next in line.
Thanks for your comment.
Today, a very convincing case has been published that makes the claim that "Elena Ferrante" is a woman by the name of Anita Raja, "a Rome-based translator whose German-born mother fled the Holocaust and later married a Neapolitan magistrate." The woman who wrote such great books on Neapolitan life is not Neapolitan (those who were deeply offended by Lionel Shriver's recent comments in Brisbane, please take note). Nowhere is the Nazi extermination program found in her novels, even though it decimated her mother's family, though the cruelties of fascism and communism are. Raja's mother was a teacher, not a seamstress (important to keep in mind for the claims Ferrante/Raja are making on the underclass). Her husband is Neapolitan, and undoubtedly a huge influence on the writing (it sounds like a partnership, unlike the view of marriage as expressed in the novels, a bleak one with deceit and abuse).In making his case, I am extremely pleased to see Claudio Gatti state, taking all these facts into consideration, "The financial data not only suggest a solution to the long-running puzzle about the real Elena Ferrante but also assist us in gaining insight into her novels."
The Lost Daughter was narrated by a translator. So, in a way, there's nothing especially surprising about this big reveal. What is especially helpful to know is Gatti's discussion on Raja's relationship to the East German writer Christa Wolf and how it influenced her novels. Wolf rewrote Greco-Roman tales into a modern idiom, so that behind the everyday-ness we are reading, there is also a strong, religious, mythical force at play. This has been evident to me from the opening pages of Days of Abandonment, the first novel from Ferrante I read. It didn't read like a novel so much as classical drama, in a theatrical sense - that there are gods off-stage influencing the action.
Without question, reading Ferrante's novels has been one of the great reading experiences I've ever had. The novels themselves are outstanding. But it's not just for the texts. Clearly, the more you read the stories closely, the more a mystery develops, left further unsolvable by the way she ends the four Neapolitan books. Her anonymity helped excite this sense of mystery. But even knowing who she is, my initial feeling this morning is, the information doesn't dispel the magic - the opposite, in fact, which is how I believed it would be. Like I stated above in the post, knowing who the writer is has very little to do with prurient interest. It merely serves to help frame some very profound questions a writer of this talent raises.
While reading Gatti's pieces, I felt at times "This is wrong", as in ethically wrong, as in invasive; investigative work done against a person's wishes. However, Ferrante's anonymity is no longer about a person's wish for privacy, but about literature, which for me is one of the most important things around. At last we who care about it can think of criticism in regards to her work without reserve.
Thank you, Stephen, for the details response to Ferrante's body of work. I may start with abandonment and story of a lost child. My partner read them all she has spoken to me at length, so I feel I have to go forth on my own. Perhaps this year is the year. I wonder what contemporary books your refer to as focusing on:
oppressive status consciousness woven into the fabric of its every expression
I see the point you make about Ferrante revealing herself eventually. A whole generation has read her books perhaps with the patient expectation that her identity will add some meaning to the works and their relationship to the the interpretation of their own lives. My partner has no interest, she grew up in a similar milieu to the one described and has something like an instinctive relationship to the women.
Hey Nick, thanks for the comment.If you're looking to be entertained, moved, feel sympathetic to the story the writer is telling, then no, you don't need the biography, or identity, of the writer. If you wish to understand what she is saying, then you absolutely do need the biography, or identity, of the writer. Criticism sorts out the artists from the entertainers, & there's no criticism without history & context. Until Ferrante comes out of her playpen we won't be able to settle the matter.
You are smart to think of starting off with Days of Abandonment. The Neapolitan novels tell a better story, but the dilemmas & drama of Ferrante's novels can all be found in that one slender punch of a book.
I understand why you want to know, but I don't think an author is obliged to answer such a question or, really, any question about their personal life and its relation to their books. (Unless, of course, that relation is directly played upon - like the many books in the popular market that represent themselves as being autobiographical but are not.) Eventually, I presume, biographers will try to do so.
In any case, your passion for these books was well communicated. :) I've had My Brilliant Friend sitting in a pile for some time now; do you think I should read Days first instead?