Elena Ferrante, like Thomas Pynchon, in a galaxy of admired literary stars, shines with an idiosyncratic allure of being anonymous. However, unlike Pynchon, the name “Elena Ferrante” itself is an assumed pseudonym. The identity of the author has been a source of intense speculation and prurient journalism.
I found the book, My Brilliant Friend, mesmerizing and quite strange. I loved the bildungsroman aspects of lower-middle-class teens living in 1950s Naples: the dreamy aspirations, the class divide, petty squabbles contained in a neighborhood at an infinite distance to the Neapolitan Sea. Ferrante is at her best, I think when describing the complicated transition from childhood, both emotional and physical, into female adolescence. Especially the latter.
I also found the text in My Brilliant Friend measured, deliberate, and spare. The canvas seemed to beg for imaginative exploration, but the brushstrokes of the language were deliberately bridled into a controlled exercise, precise like a surgeon’s scalpel. Perhaps, I was missing something about Ferrante’s style or something is lost in translation? I have read some glowing reviews praising the translation. The translator Ann Goldstein deserves a lot of credit for making Elena Ferrante accessible to many like me.
The characters often switched between Italian and Neapolitan dialect in their speech. The spirit and weight of words in those distinct uses are surely hard to translate in English. Many such conversations are just mentioned as “she spoke in dialect” when the characters switch to dialect. Apparently, this is how the book is written in the Italian language version as well.
This distant omniscience is the essence of Ferrante’s brilliance, I think. Jhumpa Lahiri, who is a brilliant writer of cultural displacement, is a fan of Ferrante and writes that it is important to understand “smarginatura” — which is a word not easily translated in English — to fully appreciate Ferrante. For me, this is the fascinating aspect of literature.
One can understand rigorous mathematical proofs with concerted effort and reach some clarity. In contrast, understanding the culture and import behind smarginatura is not as straightforward.
Ferrante’s main character, Lila, is mercurial and iridescent. I am glad that I have started this journey into her mind.
The charm lies in the tantalizing remoteness of Lila’s thoughts, and in the fact that we may not comprehend her fully, even if we did spend years knowing her. A bit like Jeanne Moreau’s Catherine in Jules et Jim.