The Fifteen Sonnets of Petrarch #Classic

Sketch of Laura as Venus C1444

Early in chapter six of One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the suitor, Pietro Crespi is wooing Amaranta. He 'would arrive at dusk, with a gardenia in his buttonhole, and he would translate Petrarch's sonnets for Amaranta. They would sit on the porch, suffocated by oregano and the roses, he reading and she sewing lace cuffs.'

It would seem that Petrarch wrote 366 sonnets. I'm not sure how the translator of The Fifteen Sonnets decided which 15 to chose for his collection but he seems to have created a truncated version of Petrarch's love for Laura, from the joyous start to her death. Although whether Laura was a real person or not, is another story entirely.

Given how things turned out for Pietro and Amaranta, the truncated version seemed most apt.

I
O joyous, blossoming, ever-blessed flowers!
’Mid which my pensive queen her footstep sets;
O plain, that hold’st her words for amulets
And keep’st her footsteps in thy leafy bowers!
O trees, with earliest green of springtime hours,
And all spring’s pale and tender violets!
O grove, so dark the proud sun only lets
His blithe rays gild the outskirts of thy towers!
O pleasant country-side! O limpid stream,
That mirrorest her sweet face, her eyes so clear,
And of their living light canst catch the beam!
I envy thee her presence pure and dear.
There is no rock so senseless but I deem
It burns with passion that to mine is near.




-5-
II
When Love doth those sweet eyes to earth incline,
And weaves those wandering notes into a sigh
With his own touch, and leads a minstrelsy
Clear-voiced and pure, angelic and divine,—
He makes sweet havoc in this heart of mine,
And to my thoughts brings transformation high,
So that I say, “My time has come to die,
If fate so blest a death for me design.”
But to my soul, thus steeped in joy, the sound
Brings such a wish to keep that present heaven,
It holds my spirit back to earth as well.
And thus I live: and thus is loosed and wound
The thread of life which unto me was given
By this sole Siren who with us doth dwell.




-7-
III
Sweet air, that circlest round those radiant tresses,
And floatest, mingled with them, fold on fold,
Deliciously, and scatterest that fine gold,
Then twinest it again, my heart’s dear jesses;
Thou lingerest on those eyes, whose beauty presses
Stings in my heart that all its life exhaust,
Till I go wandering round my treasure lost,
Like some scared creature whom the night distresses.
I seem to find her now, and now perceive
How far away she is; now rise, now fall;
Now what I wish, now what is true, believe.
O happy air! since joys enrich thee all,
Rest thee; and thou, O stream too bright to grieve!
Why can I not float with thee at thy call?




-9-
IV
Doth any maiden seek the glorious fame
Of chastity, of strength, of courtesy?
Gaze in the eyes of that sweet enemy
Whom all the world doth as my lady name!
How honor grows, and pure devotion’s flame,
How truth is joined with graceful dignity,
There thou mayst learn, and what the path may be
To that high heaven which doth her spirit claim;
There learn that speech, beyond all poet’s skill,
And sacred silence, and those holy ways
Unutterable, untold by human heart.
But the infinite beauty that all eyes doth fill,
This none can learn! because its lovely rays
Are given by God’s pure grace, and not by art.




-11-
V
O wandering steps! O vague and busy dreams!
O changeless memory! O fierce desire!
O passion strong! heart weak with its own fire;
O eyes of mine! not eyes, but living streams;
O laurel boughs! whose lovely garland seems
The sole reward that glory’s deeds require!
O haunted life! delusion sweet and dire,
That all my days from slothful rest redeems;
O beauteous face! where Love has treasured well
His whip and spur, the sluggish heart to move
At his least will; nor can it find relief.
O souls of love and passion! if ye dwell
Yet on this earth, and ye, great Shades of Love!
Linger, and see my passion and my grief.





-13-
VI
I once beheld on earth celestial graces
And heavenly beauties scarce to mortals known,
Whose memory yields nor joy nor grief alone,
But all things else in cloud and dreams effaces.
I saw how tears had left their weary traces
Within those eyes that once the sun outshone,
I heard those lips, in low and plaintive moan,
Breathe words to stir the mountains from their places.
Love, wisdom, courage, tenderness, and truth
Made in their mourning strains more high and dear
Than ever wove soft sounds for mortal ear;
And heaven seemed listening in such saddest ruth
The very leaves upon the bough to soothe,
Such sweetness filled the blissful atmosphere.




-15-
VII
Those eyes, ’neath which my passionate rapture rose,
The arms, hands, feet, the beauty that erewhile
Could my own soul from its own self beguile,
And in a separate world of dreams enclose,
The hair’s bright tresses, full of golden glows,
And the soft lightning of the angelic smile
That changed this earth to some celestial isle,—
Are now but dust, poor dust, that nothing knows.
And yet I live! Myself I grieve and scorn,
Left dark without the light I loved in vain,
Adrift in tempest on a bark forlorn;
Dead is the source of all my amorous strain,
Dry is the channel of my thoughts outworn,
And my sad harp can sound but notes of pain.




-17-
VIII
She ruled in beauty o’er this heart of mine,
A noble lady in a humble home,
And now her time for heavenly bliss has come,
’Tis I am mortal proved, and she divine.
The soul that all its blessings must resign,
And love whose light no more on earth finds room
Might rend the rocks with pity for their doom,
Yet none their sorrows can in words enshrine;
They weep within my heart; no ears they find
Save mine alone, and I am crushed with care,
And naught remains to me save mournful breath.
Assuredly but dust and shade we are;
Assuredly desire is mad and blind;
Assuredly its hope but ends in death.




-19-
IX
Dreams bore my fancy to that region where
She dwells whom here I seek, but cannot see.
’Mid those who in the loftiest heaven be
I looked on her, less haughty and more fair.
She took my hand, she said, “Within this sphere,
If hope deceive not, thou shalt dwell with me:
I filled thy life with war’s wild agony;
Mine own day closed ere evening could appear.
My bliss no human thought can understand;
I wait for thee alone, and that fair veil
Of beauty thou dost love shall yet retain.”
Why was she silent then, why dropped my hand
Ere those delicious tones could quite avail
To bid my mortal soul in heaven remain?




-21-
X
Gentle severity, repulses mild,
Full of chaste love and pity sorrowing;
Graceful rebukes, that had the power to bring
Back to itself a heart by dreams beguiled;
A tender voice, whose accents undefiled
Held sweet restraints, all duty honoring;
The bloom of virtue; purity’s clear spring
To cleanse away base thoughts and passions wild;
Divinest eyes to make a lover’s bliss,
Whether to bridle in the wayward mind
Lest its wild wanderings should the pathway miss,
Or else its griefs to soothe, its wounds to bind;
This sweet completeness of thy life it is
Which saved my soul; no other peace I find.




-23-
XI
The holy angels and the spirits blest,
Celestial bands, upon that day serene
When first my love went by in heavenly sheen,
Came thronging, wondering at the gracious guest.
“What light is here, in what new beauty drest?”
They said among themselves; “for none has seen
Within this age arrive so fair a mien
From changing earth unto immortal rest.”
And she, contented with her new-found bliss,
Ranks with the perfect in that upper sphere,
Yet ever and anon looks back on this,
To watch for me, as if for me she stayed.
So strive my thoughts, lest that high heaven I miss.
I hear her call, and must not be delayed.




-25-
XII
Oft by my faithful mirror I am told,
And by my mind outworn and altered brow,
My earthly powers impaired and weakened now,—
“Deceive thyself no more, for thou art old!”
Who strives with Nature’s laws is over-bold,
And Time to his commandment bids us bow.
Like fire that waves have quenched, I calmly vow
In life’s long dream no more my sense to fold.
And while I think, our swift existence flies,
And none can live again earth’s brief career,—
Then in my deepest heart the voice replies
Of one who now has left this mortal sphere,
But walked alone through earthly destinies,
And of all women is to fame most dear.




-27-
XIII
Sweet wandering bird that singest on thy way,
Or mournest yet the time for ever past,
Watching night come and spring receding fast,
Day’s bliss behind thee and the seasons gay,—
If thou my griefs against thine own couldst weigh,
Thou couldst not guess how long my sorrows last;
Yet thou mightst hide thee from the wintry blast
Within my breast, and thus my pains allay.
Yet may not all thy woes be named with mine,
Since she whom thou dost mourn may live, yet live,
But death and heaven still hold my spirit’s bride;
And all those long past days of sad decline
With all the joys remembered years can give
Still bid me ask “Sweet bird! with me abide!”




-29-
XIV
Lust and dull slumber and the lazy hours
Have well nigh banished virtue from mankind.
Hence have man’s nature and his treacherous mind
Left their free course, enmeshed in sin’s soft bowers.
The very light of heaven hath lost its powers
Mid fading ways our loftiest dreams to find;
Men jeer at him whose footsteps are inclined
Where Helicon from dewy fountains showers.
Who seeks the laurel? who the myrtle twines?
“Wisdom, thou goest a beggar and unclad,”
So scoffs the crowd, intent on worthless gain.
Few are the hearts that prize the poet’s lines:
Yet, friend, the more I hail thy spirit glad!
Let not the glory of thy purpose wane!




-31-
XV
O ye who trace through scattered verse the sound
Of those long sighs wherewith I fed my heart
Amid youth’s errors, when in greater part
That man unlike this present man was found;
For the mixed strain which here I do compound
Of empty hopes and pains that vainly start,
Whatever soul hath truly felt love’s smart,
With pity and with pardon will abound.
But now I see full well how long I earned
All men’s reproof; and oftentimes my soul
Lies crushed by its own grief; and it doth seem
For such misdeed shame is the fruitage whole,
And wild repentance and the knowledge learned
That worldly joy is still a short, short dream.

Petrarch or Francesco Petrarca born 20th July 1304 - died 18th or 19th July 1374.
The Fifteen Sonnets selected and translated by Thomas Wentworth Higginson 1900
A Poem For A Thursday
One Hundred Years of Solitude Readalong

A Month in Siena | Hisham Matar #NonFiction

Sometimes you read a book, or discover an author, that opens up a new world to you. Or a world that you knew existed, but one that doesn't really intersect very often with your own every day, ordinary life.

A Month in Siena by Hisham Matar was one such book and one such author.

It's hard not to feel a little envious of someone who has allocated and prioritised their time for thinking, wondering and pondering. Someone who has made their life around really understanding art, history and sociology. I wonder what it would take to live that kind of life. What are the sacrifices? How do you earn a living? Raise a family?

The joys, to me, are obvious.
Spending hours in front of your favourite art work to really see everything there is to see. Spending a month, on your own, in Siena to facilitate your obsession with this period of art history. Then writing a book about what you've learnt.

A picture changes as you look at it and changes in ways that are unexpected. I have discovered that a painting requires time. Now it takes me several months and more often than not a year before I can move on. During that period the picture becomes a mental as well as a physical location in my life.

At a micro level I can also obsess, research and blog about certain topics (most recently Moby-Dick and Herman Melville) and over the years I have become addicted to the peace and calm that radiates out of The Sea Hath its Pearls | 1897 | William Henry Margetson on regular view at the Art Gallery of NSW. Maybe it's simply that Matar has found a way to turn this into a career, whereas for me it's something I fit in around my working life. One of the things I have taken from this book, is to make this habit of observation a more conscious act and I no longer think I'm weird for returning to the same painting every time I visit the Art Gallery.

I thoroughly enjoyed Matar's detailed, intimate descriptions of his favourite Sienese paintings. I especially loved the colour plates that were included in my hardback edition of the book, so that I, too, could spend time pouring over every detail in the painting, marvelling at Matar's observational skills and interpretative ability.

Only love and art can do this: only inside a book or in front of a painting can one truly let into another's perspective. It has always struck me as a paradox how in the solitary arts there is something intimately communal.

The Effects of Good Government in the City | Ambrogio Lorenzetti

Matar also gives us a potted history of Siena and walks around a number of the main areas, describing what he sees, including the local cemetery.

It is one thing to consider the particular intimacy of a single grave, another to glimpse death's endless appetite....how brave and heroic we are in the face of undeniable evidence that life cannot be maintained, that regardless of what armour we choose, all things must pass.

Given the Covid-19 news at the moment, his reflections on the Black Death that decimated the world in the 14th century felt very relevant. The decline of civilisation as more and more people died, the growth of fear and fanaticism in the face of such chaos and the need for scapegoats to shoulder the blame that 'provoked violent sectarianism and social division.' Criminal groups and rebellions increased. Christianity viewed the plague as a form of guilt (we did something wrong and are being punished approach). Muslims saw it as something else to be endured or resisted, in a long line of God decreed acts to be endured or resisted. But out of this devastating event, came the Renaissance and the Baroque periods.

I have yet to read The Return by Hisham Matar, but I understand that A Month in Siena grew out of the time he needed after writing The Return to come to terms with not being able to find out anything about what happened to his father. Such a profound loss needs a special solace.

A Month in Siena is part of that process for Matar. It's about art and history and philosophy and sociology, but underlying every chapter, every idea, is the loss and grief for his fatherless state.

The Death of Noah Glass by Gail Jones

Sometimes a reading experience is not as straight forward as you might first think. There are some books that demand more of the reader. The Death of Noah Glass by Gail Jones was one of those books for me.

I feel a little guilty about confessing that this was my first Gail Jones. One of my former colleagues (who is very arty and whose book tastes often, but not always, match my own) loves Jones' ouevre. It has taken this year's Stella longlist nominations to finally get me there though.

The Death of Noah Glass could simply be read as a tender, moving story about the sudden death of an elderly, but still physically active and able father in mysterious circumstances. Martin and Evie struggle with their grief and memories, although, ultimately, it is these memories that provide them with solace and connection.

I quickly felt, though, that there was more going on here. There was a lot of Italian art history and art theory being thrown around (as you might expect when one of the characters was an art historian and one an artist) and the discussions on time, space and memory felt layered and purposeful.

So after about 50-60 pages, I googled.

Piero della Francesca was the obvious place to start, as he was the Florentine artist that Noah Glass studied. I quickly discovered that Weng-Ho Chong, the cover designer, had used part of one of the frames from Piero's The Legend of the True Cross for his stunning book cover design. This frame is titled, Dream of Constantine and features a sleeping figure (Constantine) and a relaxed servant in the foreground. The servant, dreamily sits in the left hand corner of the cover, whilst the angel, prophesying victory, has been moved to the other side of the cover.

The Legend of the True Cross 1454-1458, Bacci Chapel, Church of San Francesco, Arezzo

I've also thought many times in the past year, that the blue cover was a nod to Brett Whitely's, The Balcony 2. Given the very Sydney setting of the story, the choice of this particular blue on the cover feels deliberate and significant.

And then I discovered Robert Dixon's article in the Sydney Review of Books, September 2018.

My brain almost exploded with art references and philosophical debates way beyond my ken! However I did take on a few new-to-me terms, and thanks to wikipedia, managed to grasp their meaning:

In Western art history, Mise en abyme is a formal technique of placing a copy of an image within itself, often in a way that suggests an infinitely recurring sequence. In film theory and literary theory, it refers to the technique of inserting a story within a story.

A type of frame story. Sometimes a story within the main narrative can be used to sum up or encapsulate some aspect of the framing story, in which case it is referred to in literary criticism by the French term mise en abyme.

Ekphrasis has been considered generally to be a rhetorical device in which one medium of art tries to relate to another medium by defining and describing its essence and form, and in doing so, relate more directly to the audience, through its illuminative liveliness.

In this way, a painting may represent a sculpture, and vice versa; a poem portray a picture; a sculpture depict a heroine of a novel; in fact, given the right circumstances, any art may describe any other art, especially if a rhetorical element, standing for the sentiments of the artist when they created their work, is present.

Knowing this, gave my reading of The Death of Noah Glass a little extra depth. I could see, and enjoy the various layers that Jones was exploring, even if I didn't completely understand why she wanted to, or needed to do this.

After finishing the book, I found Caroline Baum's review in the Sydney Morning Herald, 6th April 2018, which helped me to understand Jones' intentions a little more,

Acknowledgments are handy for literary snoops: they provide invaluable clues to a book's emotional undertow, especially when the writer is as private and reticent as Gail Jones....

"I'm a novelist of ideas," she continues, as if slightly insulted by the notion that she might entertain even for a moment switching allegiances from the literary side of the fence to populist genre fiction. 

"Novels are machines for thinking as well as feeling. Plot points are really engines for dispersed, unstable ideas about art, family and time. Especially time, and the way it folds and crumples, its patterns and repetitions, how it stops in front of a painting."

 ...Perhaps in spite of herself, Jones' novel reveals her own feelings about what it means to lose those we love. "There is no closure and that is a good thing," she says with certainty. "Other people live on in us, as a kind of secular afterlife. Art consoles us. That is its power."

As someone who has experienced that profound stopping and folding of time in front of certain paintings and in certain historical sites, I honour and admire other people's revelations. I certainly found some consolation in The Death of Noah Glass and hope that Jones did to in the writing of it.

Iconic:The Masters of Italian Fashion by Megan Hess

By all accounts Megan Hess' books about fashion should not be my thing at all. I'm not into fashion, haute couture or otherwise. I don't give a fig about luxury brands or prestigious designers. But Coco Chanel has always fascinated me - it's her rags and riches story that intrigues me more than her fashion label. Chanel's early fashion ideas stemmed from strong feelings she had about women, freedom of movement and independence - higher dress lengths, removing corsets, simple, elegant, easy to wear designs - are all hallmarks of her label designed to give women liberty and style.

Which is how Hess first came to my attention.

Coco Chanel: The Illustrated Life of a Fashion Icon (2015) appealed instantly with its illustrated picture-book-for-adults feel. It was fun, whimsical and a stylish gift book. Although I can't but help think that Chanel's ideal of freedom of movement would be seriously challenged by the dress featured on the front cover of Hess' latest book, Iconic: The Masters of Italian Fashion!

The book is divided into four pages of text per designer/label followed by 10-12 generous pages of dress designs. I started off feeling sceptical, but Hess' brief bio's on each designer turned out to be rather fascinating, even though they were placed on unadorned white pages with lots of space around the text. It was a curious choice for a book so obviously designed to be aesthetically pleasing in every other regard.

I learnt that Armani initially trained as a medical student, until WWII & compulsory military service put paid to that idea. His modus operandi on the catwalk stemmed from his early years studying medicine, "the body was truly his canvass".

Dolce & Gabbana love to create bespoke shows - in an apartment with a bedsheet curtain and burger-shaped invites to a fast food restaurant venue for instance.

The Fendi sisters decided to 'inject new blood' into their business in 1965 by employing an up and coming German as their head designer. Karl Lagerfeld & Fendi have never looked back!

Missoni changed how we viewed and wore knitwear.

During the 1948 Olympics, the Italian team wore 'comfortable and stylish' knitted uniforms designed by Missoni. Often combining up to 20 different materials & textiles, their 'signature zigzag pattern' became a 'defining brand of the 1970's'.

Their philosophy is that 'a woman should wear (a piece of clothing) because she loves it, not just because it's practical.'

'You don't buy Prada; you invest in Prada, because a Prada item will hang in your wardrobe for decades.' It's 'minimalism for maximalists'.

Miu Miu is the youngest of the Italian designers featured in this book, 'the label has an air of nonchalance that cannot be imitated.'

Named after Miuccia Prada, it was launched in 1993. 'Where Prada is restrained, Miu Miu is rebellious...;where Prada is classic, Miu Miu is experimental.'

Gucci created luxurious 'timeless pieces' that embrace all things Italian.

He started work at the Savoy Hotel in London in the early 1900's where he realised that a 'suitcase could be more than just a suitcase; it could be a symbol of status.' Gucci's first workshop made saddles before moving onto luxury suitcases. WWII leather shortages found him experimenting with hemp fabric bags.

Pucci represented Italy in the 1932 Winter Olympics as a skier - he also designed the teams ski wear.

After WWII he became know for 'sports chic' and 'designed luxury resort wear for women accustomed to the jetsetter lifestyle.'

When he moved to Capri, his designs 'embraced island life'.

Throughout the book, Hess also revealed snippets of personal information in most of the bio's mostly to do with her various jobs within the fashion industry as well as some personal memories of her first prestigious brand name purchases.

A lovely mini gift book for that budding designer or artist in your life or for anyone in need of a splash of glamour and luxury!

#AustralianWomenWriters

#NonFicNov

The Ides of March

I've had a peculiar day.

People have been sharing their tales of woe and weirdness with me all day.

Acquaintances, not quite strangers on the street, but close enough, sharing intimate, private details with me. I've been hugging people left, right and centre and listening to the most extraordinary stories.

All of this weirdness got me thinking about the Ides of March.

The day that Julius Caesar was assassinated in 44 BC.

It was obviously a very weird day for Caesar and the Roman Republic as well.

A major turning point in history, in fact.

Where Rome moved from being a Republic (albeit a Republic fraught with internal tensions) to a fully fledged Imperial Empire by 27 BC.

A period of civil war, executions and unrest followed Caesar's death, until his great-nephew and adopted son Octavius was able to consolidate his power base and take control.

500 years of the Roman Republic over, just like that.

In a blink of an eye.

The Death of Caesar (1798) by Vincenzo Camuccini

Change has been on my mind a lot lately.

The passing of time, the march of generations, yet the continuity and sameness of it all.

Things that once seemed so important and necessary and definite have faded, been forgotten.

Other ideas and feelings have become the important things to hold on to.

Yet these too will pass.

All those people, the regular folk, the Plebeians of Rome, spent their days going around doing their daily thing. Working, eating, spending time with family. Worrying if they had enough food, frightened when someone got sick, hoping that all those people running around trying to rule Rome didn't muck things up too much.

Just like us.

All their fears, loves, dreams, hopes and concerns are now nothing to us.

They were important to them at the time, just like ours are to us, but one day they will all be gone too.

Empires, republics and nations come and go.

Just like us.

Rulers, leaders, dictators and tyrants come and go.

Just like us.

One day, this time will be but a blink in the eye of history.

Our stories will have disappeared as too our fears, loves, dreams, hopes and concerns.

Why hold on to the shitty stuff?

Let it go.

If all we've got is this brief time, this brief, always changing time, then why not hold onto the good stuff? 

Honour our sorrows, not wallow.

Learn from our trials and tribulations, not ignore.

Acknowledge our fears, then laugh at them.

Hold on to all that is good.
Fight for kindness, peace and safety.
Revel in love, beauty and hope.

Let go of all that is holding you back.

Et tu.
Et te.

#justsaying

Pompeii by Robert Harris

Pompeii by Robert Harris is my first bookclub read for 2018. 

I confess that Robert Harris is not a usual go-to author for me, although I've said that without ever having read any of his books before. I figured Pompeii would be okay as I'm always interested in anything Ancient Greek or Ancient Roman and Pompeii in particular has always fascinated me.

I visited Pompeii in 1991 on my grand European tour. It was an incredibly hot day which made it a little difficult to enjoy the sights and sites properly. But it left an impression on me that has lasted all these years.

Given that we all know what happened in Pompeii over those fateful few days in August 79 A.D. how could an author create enough tension or doubt to keep the reader guessing and turning pages?

By focusing on the role of the new aquarius for the Aqua Augusta, Harris achieves a great deal of suspense and believability in how someone might have actually survived the explosion. Knowing what happened also reminds us, the reader, of how futile and inconsequential our daily squabbles and conceits are in the face of complete annihilation. As aediles manoeuvered between power plays and slaves planned for the day they would be freed, as locals haggled for food in the markets and celebrated a public holiday, Vesuvius had even bigger plans that trumped anything and everything else. All of those schemes and hopes and dreams ended, leaving barely a trace behind. Human beings reminded once again, that our time here is brief and fragile and can be brought to an abrupt end by forces outside our control with barely a moments notice.

Lesson learnt?
By all means make plans for your future and dream about the things you'd like to do and be, but enjoy life NOW, act NOW and be the best you can be right NOW. Love where you are, who you are and the people you're with right NOW. All you really have is right NOW. Everything else once was or might be one day. All that stuff is fleeting and even as I write this, hundreds of moments of NOW have slipped by into my past, never to be retrieved again. The only person who cares about my NOW is me. So I might as well make it the best NOW that I can.

For me, right NOW, that's writing the best book post I can to reflect my reading experience with Pompeii.

The book wasn't necessarily the style of writing that I prefer, but the topic fired my imagination and prompted me to do some additional research - something that I LOVE to do. At times it felt like Harris stacked the story with as much of the information he had learnt about Pompeii as possible, but mostly Pompeii was an excellent yarn told by a storyteller who loves what he does.

My research found Pliny the Younger's letters about the eruption of Vesuvius as well as a recent article about the discovery of the charred and carbonised scrolls found in a library in Herculaneum - perhaps the same ones that Rectina was trying to save at the end of Harris' story.

In my search for the lost scrolls of Herculaneum, I discovered this interesting BBC documentary on the recent archaeological finds in the lesser known neighbour of Pompeii. If you have an hour to spare, I recommend taking a look; it complements the historical information included in Harris' novel beautifully. 

The Story of the Lost Child by Elena Ferrante

It has taken me a while but here I am at the end of the Ferrante tetralogy.

With so much hype and frenzy surrounding the series and author, it was hard to come to these books with a fresh approach or low expectations.

My feelings and reactions have been complicated and mixed up to say the least. I was reluctant to get started and then reluctant to confess my lack of any amazeballs reaction.

I certainly don't hate the series either or think that it doesn't have any virtues. It just lacked something. A little something, that I haven't been able to work out yet.

I felt admiration for the writer and translator and fascination about the history and socio-cultural constructs. I also felt incredibly frustrated and annoyed at most of the characters, most of the time.

So much so, that I thought I would never actually read The Story of the Lost Child.

But at the recent Sydney Writer's Festival, I attended an event that discussed the Ferrante phenomenon. The exciting buzz from the event was enough to convince me that it was time to finally finish this series off.

And I'm glad I did.

Despite my misgivings at different times along the way, we finally see some personal growth and understanding from the main character, Elena.

The tension throughout this book as we wait to find out who the lost child is nearly unbearable. It's almost a relief when it finally happens.

I felt very connected to Dede by the end of the book. Her adult relationship with her mother was something that I understood and I finally had that little a-ha moment about why I had struggled with Elena all the way along.

Ferrante has created memorable characters who came to life thanks to the intimate details that she revealed about them along the way.

This series is entertaining and even ambitious, but, to my mind it's not a masterpiece.
Like Ferrante's characters, the books have issues and problems. But perhaps it is these very issues and problems that draw so many people in. Seeing the awkwardness, the rawness and the messiness of life reflected back at us via art can be very alluring and hypnotising - rather like watching a train wreck perhaps!

My reviews for My Brilliant Friend
The Story of a New Name
Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay
The Story of the Lost Child
also by Ferrante, The Days of Abandonment

Where do you fall on the continuum of Ferrante fever?

The After-Room by Maile Meloy

I decided to finish off The Apothecary trilogy this past weekend during Dewey's 24 hr Readathon.

It was a great readathon choice.

The After-Room was a quick, easy, entertaining read.

It started off terrifically and I raced through the first half. Conversations with the dead, a mind-reading magician and a trip to Italy kept the action and the drama intense and suspenseful.

But, just like the second book, the ending fell away.

Too many things happened at once, and in this case, for this adult reader, there was too much romance. As a teen reader, I probably would have adored the lovely romantic ending - it was neat and sweet.

I suspect Meloy lost focus at the end and forgot what the book was meant to be about - was it romance, was it mystery, was it magical or was it historical? It's reason for being just seemed to fizzle out. By the end I was even confused about who the intended audience was. So many elements were obviously junior fiction and the writing style was junior fiction, but the content was veering towards teen/YA.

However, the black and white illustrations by Ian Schoenherr were tremendous.

My review for The Apothecary and The Apprentices.

Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay by Elena Ferrante

My reactions to book three of Ferrante's Neapolitan series are a lot more confused than with her previous two books.

I've just come to the not-so surprising end (when you consider the title) of Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay and all I have are these words running through my head:

Rumours
Indecision
Muddy
Doubts
Push me-pull me
Frustrating
For God's Sake!
Get over yourself!
Get on with it!

Ultimately, though, I was left with the uncomfortable, complicated feeling of 'I don't like any of you very much.'
Except maybe Elena's sister, Elisa. There was something about her 'good girl' wish to please and 'peacemaker' desire to avoid rocking the boat that I connected to.

It's complicated because even though I've come to strongly dislike most of the main characters, I still want to know what happens. Maybe it's a simple as wanting to see them get their just desserts?

Flawed human characters are interesting and can inform us about our lives and relationships, but somewhere during book three, the flaws come to dominate at the expense of any endearing, engaging behaviours. Perhaps, again, this is a simple comment on the chaotic lives of most twenty-somethings or the crazy political situation in Naples post WWII.

At one point Lila says, 'Each of us narrates our life as it suits us.'
We all have the desire to tell our story so we can be the heroes in our own life. If this is the best possible version of the Elena and Lila story, I'd hate to see the worst! Meanness, pettiness, cruelty and unkindness abound. It's a desperate world, on the brink of political and social upheaval. There are no happy ever after fairy tale endings to look forward to.

Lila once again sums up their world and their times by saying, 'In the fairy tales one does as one wants, and in reality one does what one can.' It's not even the 'best we can do' - it's more basic and instinctual than that - it's about survival - at any cost. Being the best you can be is part of the fairy tale.

The first half of the book takes us into Lila's chaotic world, while the second half is all about Elena's story. Both stories delve into 'the solitude of women's minds'. With Lila we are often left to guess and assume what's really going on inside her head, whereas Elena shows us all her meandering, indecisive thoughts.

One forgets just how far women's rights have come in the past 40 yrs. Reading about the sexual revolution of the late 60's - early 70's in a devout Catholic country reminds us all how much has actually changed for the better. But it also highlights the challenges and provocations of this time, for both men and women.

I confess that I now need a little break from this world of brutality, unkindness and militancy. It's exhausting and quite draining...even though I can't get them out of my head!

I'd love to know what you think about this book and read your reviews.
Please feel free to leave the link to your review in the comments below.
Unlike Wordpress, Blogger does not provide a live link. However you can create your own live link by using this simple code...
<a href="url of your post">your blog name</a>

This book is part of my #XmasinSummer reading challenge.

My reviews for My Brilliant Friend
The Story of a New Name
The Story of the Lost Child
also by Ferrante, The Days of Abandonment

The Story of a New Name by Elena Ferrante

It's not easy to review a book that has had so much love and so much attention already heaped onto it.

How do you add to the praise, or describe how profoundly it affected you, or marvel over the language and depth of character detail, when it's all been said before ?

The Story of a New Name is such a book.

Book two in the Neapolitan series picks up right where My Brilliant Friend leaves off. Chapter one launches us straight back into the world of Elena and Lina.

The cast of characters at the beginning of the book gives the forgetful a chance to recap who's who with some basic plot reminders. But other than this, Ferrante respects her readers enough to leave the 'remember whens' and flashbacks alone.

I enjoyed this book more than the first simply because the girls are now young women and their story is more complex, more disturbing and therefore more compelling. The highs and lows of this friendship are breath-taking. Like a rubber band these two friends keep coming back together. Time and again they find each other - to help, to argue, to gloat, to shock, to share. And to remember - where they come from, why they need to leave and why they keep coming back.

Their uncomfortable forays into a sexual life, their determination to live independent lives away from the poverty of their childhood and the power and influence of the neighbourhood hoods make for fascinating story-telling. Domestic violence, sexual harassment, exploitation or workers, debts, favours, revenge, corruption and thuggery are natural, expected parts of this world. There is no escape. There is no alternative. It's just the way things are.

This is the kind of book I had trouble putting down. I finished it in a few frantic days of reading bliss and picked up book three straight away.

I'd love to know Ferrante's own story and how much of these books are based on real events. Her use of specific dates, places and the sometimes painfully real revelations make this book read like a fictionalised biography.

I wonder?

I'd love to know what you think about this book and read your reviews.
Please feel free to leave the link to your review in the comments below. Unlike Wordpress, Blogger does not provide a live link. However you can create your own live link by using this simple code...
<a href="url of your post">your blog name</a>

This book is part of my #XmasinSummer reading challenge. It was also my first read of 2016 - a great way to start my new reading year!

My reviews for My Brilliant Friend
Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay
The Story of the Lost Child
also by Ferrante, The Days of Abandonment

The Days of Abandonment by Elena Ferrante

Thanks to Andi's #15in31 challenge this month I have been ripping through all those half-finished books lurking in my backpack and by my bed.

The Days of Abandonment was my backpack book, mostly due to it's slimness. But as it turned out, the emotional impact of this book worked best in small doses as well.
(My backpack book is the book that only gets pulled out at lunch time. It gets read in small, quick bites.)

"One April afternoon, right after lunch, my husband announced that he wanted to leave me."

So begins Olga descent into disbelief, despair, and her days of abandonment.

This is raw stuff.

Ferrante delves into the deep, dark days of the soul after a break-up. Some sections are hard to read. You want to avert your eyes and push the pain away any way you can.

You feel Olga's helplessness, you feel her rage. You want to shake her and tell her to wake up to herself. You wish she had a little more dignity and a little less bitterness.

Once again, you are left feeling that Ferrante must be writing from real life. The details are so specific and so authentic that it feels like you're intruding on someone's personal journal.

This is not an easy read, or a happy read.
But it is a very human reading experience.

Book 9 read for #15in31 challenge.

My reviews for My Brilliant Friend
The Story of a New Name
Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay
The Story of the Lost Child

My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante

It almost feels a bit redundant to write a review about My Brilliant Friend, since nearly everyone I know in blogger land has already read and reviewed it.

But since this blog explores my personal journey with books rather than writing straight book reviews, I figure I'll find something to say that is unique!

Part of the difficulty when finally reading a book that everyone around you has been raving about for months is the high level of expectation.

The Neapolitan Novels are now one of my colleagues favourite books. Dear Libby has been at me all year to read them. She is currently on a month long tour of Italy.
I felt I owed it to her to read at least one of them while she was gone so we could finally talk about it when she gets back.

And while it is fair to say that I loved the book, admired the beautiful language and now want to read the next three books, I haven't felt the need to rave.

This got me thinking.
What books do I rave about? Why not this one?

It all boils down to a sense of discovery.
Books that I have raved and gushed about in recent times, were ones that I felt that I had discovered all by myself. They were unknown quantities, new experiences to me. I often approached these books with no more expectation than a general, "this looks like my kind of book. I'll give it a go."

Does it matter that I don't feel the need to gush and rave about this book?
Isn't it enough to say that My Brilliant Friend is an extraordinary portrait of friendship, eloquently told? Does a book with so much heart, so rich in detail really need my rave review? Isn't this book, this series selling itself on its own merits?

Although the mystery surrounding Ferrante must be part of the success of this word of mouth sensation.
Elena Ferrante is a pen name.
Almost nothing is known about the real identity of the author.
I couldn't help but wonder if the Neapolitan novels were autobiographical in nature. Not just because of the name of the narrator (Elena), but also because the story felt so very, very real.
The observations about friendship and some of the little incidents seemed grounded in real events. The emotions, the dramas, the scenes read just like a memoir.

This could explain why the author has chosen to write under a nom de plume. The streets of Naples belong to the Camorra. My Brilliant Friend describes the interactions, the effects, the influences and the behaviours of the Camorra on everyday Neapolitan life.

However, my knowledge of the Camorra was non existent until my reading of My Brilliant Friend. I had to do some research.

My knowledge of the Mafia was purely based on American movies like The Godfather. 
For instance,  I didn't realise that the Mafia was called by different names in different regions - Cosa Nostra in Sicily, Ndrangheta in Calabria, Sacra Corona Unita in Apulia and, of course, the Camorra in Naples.

A Vanity Fair article, The Camorra Never Sleeps, from 2012, says,

The Camorra is not an organization like the Mafia that can be separated from society, disciplined in court, or even quite defined. It is an amorphous grouping in Naples and its hinterlands of more than 100 autonomous clans and perhaps 10,000 immediate associates, along with a much larger population of dependents, clients, and friends. It is an understanding, a way of justice, a means of creating wealth and spreading it around. It has been a part of life in Naples for centuries—far longer than the fragile construct called Italy has even existed. At its strongest it has grown in recent years into a complete parallel world and, in many people’s minds, an alternative to the Italian government, whatever that term may mean. Neapolitans call it “the system” with resignation and pride. The Camorra offers them work, lends them money, protects them from the government, and even suppresses street crime. The problem is that periodically the Camorra also tries to tear itself apart, and when that happens, ordinary Neapolitans need to duck.

Is it any wonder that the author wishes to remain anonymous?

This book is #2 out of my 15in31 challenge throughout October.

My reviews for The Story of a New Name
Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay
The Story of the Lost Child

also by Ferrante, The Days of Abandonment