The Forbidden Notebook

The Forbidden Notebook / Alba de Céspedes
trans. from the Italian by Ann Goldstein
Barcelona: Astra House, 2023, c1952.
210 p.

This novel is a forgotten classic: this new translation has brought it back to the attention of many readers, and I was one of them. I'd heard this being mentioned everywhere, and since it's written as a diary I was especially intrigued - I love epistolary formats. 

But the most shocking thing about this book is how relevant it still is. Valeria Cossati is a housewife in Rome; their household is just hanging on financially, so she's gone out to work. But she's also still responsible for all household duties and chores, including still taking care of her adult children who live at home. Her daughter is chafing to be independent - she's studying law, having an affair, and planning to move out, all choices that contradict expectations. Her son is a man-child, helpless and spoiled, with a younger and docile girlfriend he plans on marrying eventually. And her husband is no longer interested in her sexually or as her own person; he calls her Mama, and is clearly having his own affairs. 

One day Valeria is overcome with the compulsion to buy a small notebook and begins writing her dissatisfactions into it. She uncovers all sorts of feelings she'd been denying for a very long time, and writing them down feels like a transgression. She is always worried about a new hiding spot for her notebook in case anyone should read it. And after all the worry and the writing and the confessions, she has a choice to make - keep writing or resign herself to life.

 

This is a powerful read, full of a quiet fight against patriarchal expectations and limitations. But also a statement about how hard it is for one person to fight alone against all her conditioning and the social mores that fence her in. Her daughter, tougher and younger, might be able to manage it in the years ahead but Valeria has already given in, in some indefinable way. It's the details in this book that really strike me, the descriptions of their home and all its rooms that seem to be claimed by others with nothing left for her, of her more successful friends' lives, of her children and their habits and appearance and behaviours. There's her concern for social niceties and all the shadings of class and propriety that shape her days. And her encounter with an innocuous black notebook that becomes vital to her being. 

I loved this book. The writing style, the characters, the vibe - all so good. So much said in it, and so much to think about. Definitely a great decision to reissue this one now. A must read for lovers of literary fiction about women's lives.

 

Diary of a Tuscan Bookshop

 

Diary of a Tuscan Bookshop / Alba Donati
trans. from the Italian by Elena Pala
New York : Scribner, 2023, ©2022.
194 p.

This charming memoir will appeal to booklovers who might also dream of opening a tiny bookshop in the middle of nowhere -- and having it actually become a success! 

Alba Donati worked in the publishing business in Milan, but decided to move back to the tiny Tuscan village of Lucignana (pop. 180) where she was born. She builds a tiny bookshop on a hill, stocking it only with the books she loves. And plenty of lovely additions, like local jams, calendars and literary stockings, too.

The bookshop becomes a success, drawing people from many nearby regions. This book is structured in diary entries, relating everyday events from small to dramatic, like a fire in the shop. Each entry ends with a list of the daily orders, a great way to find out what her customers are reading (and build your own TBR as well!) 

But even though there is a lot of charm just in the descriptions of the bookshop and its gardens, and of course in Donati's talk of all the books and bookish customers involved, there is also deep reflection on Lucignana itself, and all her family ties in the village. There is history, biography, and self-reflection mixed in to this escapist dream, showing that it's not easy, but returning to her home village and creating positive change was worth it. 

We finish up with her after a year of hard work and exponential success, with Donati still making plans for more bookish delights -- new titles, writer events, and growth. If you're a booklover and want to live vicariously through Donati's journey to create this destination bookshop in the hills of Italy, you won't want to miss this one. 

Grazia Deledda's Cosima

 

Cosima / Grazia Deledda
trans. from the Italian by Martha King
NY: Italica, 2008, c1936.
156 p.

I've had this classic on my shelf for a while; now was the time to read it. Deledda was the first Italian woman to win the Nobel, in 1926, and only the second woman overall. Her writing focused on the Sardinian people of her own childhood; this book, a vaguely autobiographical novel, was published posthumously in 1936. 

This novel ranges over the life of Cosima, member of a large-ish family, from a young age until her adulthood when she becomes a writer. She has older brothers and many sisters, and their stories are told here as well. Cosima notes all the elements of her home, her mother's character, her beloved father's death, and all the problems her brothers and sisters face. 

She outlines experiences like spending time in the hills around the town, visiting neighbours with pretensions to nobility, hearing the gossip of servants and more. We can feel the weight of social expectations on young girls, how they are constrained by their culture -- when Cosima begins writing, and then sending that writing to magazines, it is thought to be forward, a possible stain against her finding a good husband (which is of course the goal). 

But Cosima perseveres and continues writing, continues to record everything that is happening around her; the land, the light, the personalities of family and servants alike. The book ends abruptly, to me - it feels like it stops, not concludes. That could be because it was published posthumously, though. 

Overall, this has a rich historical feel to it. It evokes the senses, creating clear images of Cosima's surroundings and her upbringing. There are moments that make a reader angry, and some that are more touching. I'd like to read her most popular book now, Reeds in the Wind, and see how they compare. 

Eight Strings

 

Eight Strings / Margaret DeRosia
TO: Simon & Schuster, c2023.
321 p.

In late 19th century Venice, Francesca is fleeing an arranged marriage, with the help of her grandfather. She dresses up like a man, becoming Franco, and runs to the Minerva marionette puppet theatre where she tries out for a job. Her grandfather was a puppeteer and has trained her, but the profession is only open to men. As Franco, he gets the most entry level job to prove himself, and as time goes on he grows in his puppeteering skills and in his life as a man. Franco is who Francesca was always meant to be; fortunately, he's also the way to hide from his family, and develop the life of his dreams. 

Franco works hard and earns the trust of the Minerva's owner, as well as the grudging respect of his coworkers. Those relationships cement his devotion to the theatre, until one day a friend from the distant past appears. Annella had grown up on the same street, and is now a companion to a wealthy woman who seems to have some influence at the Minerva. Annella recognizes Franco but keeps silent. They are thrown together through circumstance, and desire begins to bloom. 

But Franco has to figure out not only how to become a master puppeteer, but how to effectively hide from his father and brother, even while tracing the tangled threads of theatre politics and financing. As things begin to alter and shift at the Minerva, Franco and Annella have to find out who's pulling the strings, and where their own future lies. 

This was a fascinating historical read, evoking a vibrant, earthy Venice. From criminal rings and corporate spying, to art and puppetry, to the power of clothing and finding out who you really are, this story has it all. With a fantastic setting, unusual and gripping storyline, and some complex and intriguing characters, this was a thoroughly gripping read. Written by an LGBTQ+ author, it also has a compelling character arc for Francesca/Franco. The shift to being Franco is skillfully done, with the ring of truth and understanding of the nuances of this change. It was convincing and this is a character you are cheering for all along, wanting him to overcome all the hurdles and obstacles in the way of grand success. I really enjoyed the fresh historical setting and context -- and I do love a good story about puppets! 

The Seamstress of Sardinia

 

The Seamstress of Sardinia / Bianca Pitzorno
trans. from the Italian by Brigid Maher
NY: HarperPerennial, 2022, c2018.
304 p.

This saga is set in Italy, starting in 1900. It's based on some of the stories that the author's grandmother told her, as well as stories of seamstresses from the past. The author has taken these inspirations and created a very engaging and readable novel, which has extra appeal for those who sew now. 

It's 1900 in Sardinia, and a young girl lives with her only surviving relative, her grandmother. Her grandmother is a seamstress, and to help scrape out a living, the girl learns to sew from a very young age.

This young sartina (seamstress of sheets, linens and basic clothing) relates her life story from her youth to her advanced age. And as she does so, she sheds light on the society she lives in. As a seamstress who goes to people's homes to do their sewing, she is privy to many family secrets. The book is told in episodes that interrelate and create a picture of her town and its many layers of social class and privilege. 

There is a rich and complex cast of characters, all seen through the eyes of this poor girl who has ambitions and respect for herself. There's the Marchesa Esther, an intelligent girl whose upbringing is unusual, and who doesn't put up with the misogyny of her husband and their society; there are the Provera sisters, a family who is rumoured to be so wealthy that they order all their clothing directly from Paris (but when she is called to work for them, our seamstress discovers the secrets of the household, and the wardrobe). There is an American lady who pays well to have her linens managed, and her tragic story is revealed in one whole section of the book. And there is the neighbour child Assuntina, who somehow becomes the responsibility of our narrator. 

Plus there is romance and pathos and tragedy and class strife -- so much drama & excitement, told in a flowing style. The story involves so many details of daily life, from food to social events to transportation to landscape to expectations of women of different classes -- it's illuminating and fascinating. 

The author is clearly a sewist as well, the descriptions of actual sewing are fabulous. The main character is not just a sartina in order to provide inside eyes for the author, rather the sewing is a key part of the many stories she tells. From descriptions of fabrics, to her first sewing machine, it is all very realistic and engaging for anybody who can imagine it right alongside the characters. I love it when my hobbies show up in books like this!

I really enjoyed this book -- for the strong sewing content of course, but also for the story. The characters were so engaging, the stories were dramatic and focused on the female experience. And the setting was completely absorbing. I couldn't stop reading. There was a bit of melodrama near the end that I wasn't completely happy with, but overall this was a great read.

One of my favourite kinds of historical reads are ones that travel alongside a woman over her whole life, and this is a great example. So good! 

The Villa in Italy

 

The Villa in Italy / Elizabeth Edmondson
London: HarperCollins, c2006.
426 p.

I picked this book off the shelves of my library, after discovering that this author is another pseudonym for the author also known as Elizabeth Pewsey (and Elizabeth Aston, and Gally Marchmont) who I recently discovered. And more on her later! 

This is the only copy of one of her books, under any name, in my library's collection. So I read it. I enjoyed it - it's set in the 50s, obviously mostly in Italy! A woman named Beatrice Malaspina has died and left legacies to four strangers, who are all summoned to the Villa Dante. The conditions for receiving their legacy is that all four will arrive at the Villa and stay there for 33 days together, looking for the codicil that will explain everything. 

We meet Delia, a British opera singer who is suffering from bronchitis which is obviously pretty detrimental to her career - she brings along her friend Jessica, who is eager to get out of London and the scandal of her separation from her war hero husband. 

They arrive first, but shortly after two other Brits arrive together, although by chance - they don't each other or Delia either. Marjorie is a prickly and private woman, a detective writer who comes from the lower classes and resents Delia and Jessica for their rich lady airs. She's suffering from writer's block, which is her burden. But she also senses more than what is obvious to the eye, and comes out with sudden insights that make the others a bit uncomfortable. 

George is the third person there; he's a quiet scientist who carries the heavy guilt of having worked on the development of the atom bomb during the war. While he's a man with a rigorous scientific mind, he also has another side, having been brought up in a Jesuit school.

And finally, days after all the Brits arrive, Lucius rolls up. He's an American, more casual and authoritative than they are, a banker in the family tradition although he'd rather be an artist. He also carries psychological burdens from his war experiences in Italy, which turn out to be more connected to the other people at the Villa Dante than he'd known. 

So you have all four of these troubled strangers gathering in a villa owned by someone none of them had ever met (to their knowledge), and a puzzle set for them to solve. But unlike a Christie novel, there's no murder and mayhem among the small group, rather, they start to build tentative friendships and confess their longings for their lives to one another. 

There's enough plot and development to keep the story moving -- uninvited and unwelcome guests at the end, a McCarthy-like goverment offical interrupting their idyll -- but the heart of the book lies with the characters. These four (plus the fifth wheel, Jessica) are all very different but their unhappinesses are rather the same. 

There are interesting twists and the conclusion is not the easy one - there is no Noah's Ark style pairing off of all concerned. I appreciated that there was more complexity to the storyline in this way, and the story left me with a satisfied feeling. Lots about music and art in this story, as seems to be common in this author's work, and questions of responsibility and human feeling, as well as various family struggles. Really great summer read, with a little more heft than a beach read but also a lovely Italian setting to relax into as a holiday of sorts. Quite enjoyable & I wouldn't hesitate to read another by this author. 

Enchanted April, at 100 years

 

The Enchanted April / Elizabeth von Arnim
NY: NYRB, 2007, c1922
247 p.

The beginning of 2023 has been speeding by, but I finally have a chance to sit down and talk about the book that I finished out 2022 with! I wanted to reread The Enchanted April in 2022, and it was the hundred-year anniversary of its publication - and I just squeezed it in. 

I've mentioned my fondness for this book before, but have never given it a proper review. Rereading it, this time a bit older, brought out new elements for me, and I also realized the clever use of wordplay and characterization in the book that gets a little lost in the movie -- even if that movie is one of my favourite book-to-film adaptations ever. 

In any case, if you don't know Elizabeth von Arnim's work, this is probably her most famous novel, alongside her somewhat fictionalized memoir Elizabeth and her German Garden. It's also one of her sunniest stories, with a heartwarming conclusion and lots of beauty and joy involved, even if some things aren't always happy in the characters' lives. Von Arnim has a sharp eye for unhappiness and the small moments of interpersonal clashes, and that all shows here. Each character has a depth to their misery, hidden under their socially acceptable shells. But the somewhat strange situation the four women who are our main characters find themselves in - sharing a castle in Italy for the month, even though initially strangers - breaks down the social constraints between these women of different classes. There's Lottie Wilkins and Rose Arbuthnot, both middle class women fed up with being subservient wives and ladies, and Lady Caroline Dester, a young aristocratic beauty sick of being pawed by men, and then there is Mrs. Fisher, an 'old' woman of 65 who lives in the past and her memories of Great Men. 

Italy itself and all its warmth and beauty, softens their hearts and makes the prickly people and situations of rainy England melt away. Lottie, the heart of the book and of the quartet, expands with joy and love, and quickly writes to invite her husband to join them even though he was what she was trying to get away from. This throws the other women into a bit of upset, with each feeling their own reasons for not wanting a husband there. 

But all is well, with humour and friendships and understandings all blossoming, until there is a perfect happy ending. In the movie, this ending leaves the viewer happy, peaceful and believing in miracles. The book, while also ending happily, also leaves you with a sense that perhaps this Italian idyll is made just for San Salvatore and will not travel with the holidayers as they leave. But one can hope...

In any case, this is one of my favourite and most reread Von Arnim books, and if you haven't really explored her before, I would recommend this one for sure. There are others that I also love, and only a couple that I don't, and I hope that you'll also develop a fondness for this clever and acerbic writer too. 

Italy in September

I did say that I hadn't quite finished talking about books by women in translation in August; today I have some all in one reviews for a quartet of Italian books that, as it turned out, I didn't fall in love with. It's strange but I didn't notice that most of these feature daughters, mothers and dead fathers, until I put them together like this. 

Farewell, Ghosts / Nadia Terranova; translated by Ann Goldstein (2018)

This one was my favourite of this quartet, but even so I found it quite slow. Ida is in her 30s but she's just returned to her childhood home in Messina, as her mother wants to get it ready to sell. Being back brings up all sorts of thoughts and emotions about her childhood trauma, when her father walked out of the house and disappeared. The book draws out these feelings and the relationship between Ida and her mother, and I appreciated parts of it but felt like it needed a stronger resolution. And maybe a bit more movement in the narrative.

Whereabouts / Jhumpa Lahiri; translated by Jhumpa Lahiri (2018)

I don't know if I was just distracted while reading this one but I couldn't get into it at all. I was confused by who was speaking when I started it and never really clicked with it. It's about a professor in an Italian city who is dealing with a feeling of unbelonging even as she moves around her city and interacts with colleagues and thinks of her mother who is isolated after her father's untimely death. 

The Lost Daughter / Elena Ferrante; translated by Ann Goldstein (2006)

I read this quickly so that I could watch the Netflix adaptation. But I didn't like the book and ended up fast forwarding through much of the movie, too. Lena is a mother whose daughters have moved to Toronto; she's taking a vacation to the coast by herself. She means to relax but gets caught up with the family dramas of a nearby Neapolitan family on vacation. I can see what Ferrante is getting at but I just wasn't interested and didn't like Lena or the direction of the story at all. 

70% Acrylic, 30% Wool / Viola di Grado; translated by Michael Reynolds (2011)

This was the biggest disappointment of the bunch. I would rate it barely 2 stars. In this one, Camelia is a young Italian woman living in Leeds with her mother, in a very dysfunctional state after her father has died in a car accident along with the woman he was having an affair with. She finds strange clothes in a dumpster, which lead her to Wen, a young man in a clothing shop from whom she begins to learn Chinese ideograms. The story is convoluted, twisted, depressing and the ending is ridiculous. There's no payoff and I was frustrated by the narrative. I had been looking forward to this one so it was particularly disappointing!

Anyhow, I'm hoping for some better Italian reads in the upcoming year!

The Florios of Sicily

 

The Florios of Sicily / Stefania Auci
trans. from the Italian by Katharine Gregor
NY: Harper Via, 2020, c2019
304 p.

This Italian family saga was a bestseller in Italy, and it's definitely a dramatic and entertaining read. It follows the Florios as they move to Sicily, run a spice and import business, grow their business despite many obstacles, face family tragedies and political issues -- basically climb their way up across a couple of generations from peasants to wealthy business owners with societal caché.

I enjoyed the structure of the book, which helped the reader along; each section is named after a product that expands the Florio business, and begins with a note of the specific dates this portion is set in, and a brief intro outlining the social and political state of Sicily at that moment. There was a lot of movement between French and Neapolitan rulers, independence and constitutions and the like at this time, so these historical notes (which read dramatically) were useful. 

The heart of the book is the Florios themselves, though; the original brothers Paolo and Ignazio, Paolo's wife Guiseppina and their child Vincenzo. The family grows in wealth and influence as the years go by, but also find that they can't overcome their beginnings as "labourers" in the eyes of longtime Palermo businessmen. Also, Vincenzo in particular becomes obsessed with joining the nobility but never quite succeeds in marrying up. He'll have to leave that to his own son Ignazio. 

The story is told in a straightforward manner, no stylistic flourishes. It's a historical novel and so focuses on building up the characters and the setting -- and 19th C. Palermo comes to vibrant life in this book. I didn't realize when I started this that the Florios were a real family that Auci is trying to illuminate in this novel, which was probably a good thing as I usually don't like novels with real people as characters. But because I knew absolutely nothing about them or this setting, it didn't bother me here. I felt that she was respectful to all the characters, even the ones that are not the nicest people. 

I also enjoyed seeing the Florio empire grow; from spices to silks, sulfur to ships, lace, bark and more there is info on each commodity and why it was important to Sicily, all told in a natural way as part of the story. It was a bit soap opera-ish in its ups and downs, but not in a bad way -- it was an entertaining read. There were some really compelling characters who she made into true individuals (my favourite was Vincenzo's wife Guilia). The writing wasn't the feature of the book, but it was also well done in that it didn't interrupt the story, you didn't even really notice it - there were no clunky bits. The translator's note about working with a book that was using a lot of 19th C. Italian dialect was fascinating too; Italian hasn't changed as much as English has in the last couple of hundred years, so she had some decisions to make about how to translate it. I appreciated that the publisher put that note in; it made me look back at the book a little differently. 

Overall, this was a different read from many I've picked up this month, and I really enjoyed this visit to the merchant cities of Sicily.  

The City and the House

The City & The House / Natalia Ginzburg
trans. from the Italian by Dick Davis
NY: Arcade, 2019, c1984.
312 p.

I read Natalia Ginzburg's Family Lexicon last year, and was quite taken with it. So when I saw this book I snapped it up without even realizing that it is an epistolary novel, one of my favourite forms.

There are a group of friends writing to one another here; Guiseppe is moving to America to live with his brother, it's not like he really wants to go but he doesn't want to stay either. So the book begins with goodbyes. 

And throughout the letters there are continual goodbyes -- to homes, relationships, friendships, understandings -- there is loss and disaffection permeating these blunt and honest letters. The circle of friends is centred around Lucrezia and Piero, who own Le Margherite, a rambling country house outside Rome where they go to spend weekends in the freewheeling atmosphere of a house overrun with Lucrezia's badly behaved children, and to talk and eat and interact. Even the furniture becomes vital to them. 

Guiseppe's leaving is the first crack in this circle, which then begins to crumble. Le Margherite is sold, and the friends are set adrift, losing their connections, shifting allegiances and leaving the circle altogether. They write to one another furiously, terrible sad things happen, and there is no reconciliation or return to the past. 

This is simultaneously enthralling and very sad. The style, all those letters, works beautifully to tell this story. But because it is only letters there are also those loose ends that are never fully described or explored -- you don't do that in a letter. Thus it felt like there was space around and behind what we are reading; what is going on in the time that the character isn't writing? And how do the characters truly feel about some of the dreadful things that overtake them?

This evokes a certain time in Rome, and you get a sense of these characters going about their lives from the intimacy of their voices in their letters. The sadness, the attempts to save face or put the best spin on things, the honesty when despairing, the manner in which new ways of living absorb the characters and create new distance between them. 

I was absorbed in this one, waiting to hear from one character or another, hoping to hear that things were making a turn for the better. It's a gem, with strong characterizations and pithy writing, and an atmosphere all of its own.