It’s a wonder that I even read Love in Vain, a
collection of short stories by Sienese writer Federigo Tozzi (1883-1920), as
everything about the book - starting with the discouraging title and lugubrious
cover - seems almost deliberately primed to bring the reader down. The table of
contents too reveals several more dismal titles, like “To Dream of Death” and
“Vile Creatures.” Going into the text itself, one finds more than a few leaden,
dramatic pronouncements like the one I’ve used in the title of this post. And
to top it all off, the tales by this devotee of Gabriele D’Annunzio explore a
similar fascination with decadence and with the intersection between love and
death, with subjects that promise a wallow through human misery. Indeed,
Tozzi’s stories are filled with stunted hopes, failed love affairs, economic
insecurities, and repressed, simmering anger that occasionally erupts with grievous
consequences. Characters in not a few of the stories come to bad ends,
including suicide, murder and cruel accidents, as in “Dead Man in the Oven,” in
which a vagabond accustomed to sleeping in an unused oven neglects to realize
one night that the baker has put the oven to use that day, with consequences evident
from the story’s title.
With all this cheerfulness in the offing, one could hardly
be faulted for harboring low expectations, but Tozzi’s stories defy
pigeon-holing. The occasional infusion of Christian mysticism in these tales; their
palpable, evident excitement in exploring the new field of psychology; and
their singular style and careful construction seem nearly incongruent with their dark
themes, revealing a writer certainly as devoted to the art of the short story
as to reveling in the obscure mechanisms of human behavior. Love in Vain is one of the finest short story collections I've read in a long time.
The 20 tales included in the volume - all from between 1908
and 1919, twelve years of productivity cut short by the influenza epidemic in
1920 - range across numerous subjects, linked by an astute psychological
realism and portraits of passionate persons engaged either in succumbing to or
surmounting their emotions. The zeal with which Tozzi approaches psychology is
obvious in stories like “Mad for Music,” in which the narrator explicitly
announces that “Through the observation of the typical characters you might
come across, especially on the streets of small cities or towns, you can greatly enrich your understanding of life,” and then proceeds to assert the need to
study especially those who, “by the grace of fate’s outrageous excesses –
manage to set themselves apart from social norms.” The story concerns a young man, Roberto Falchi,
who, following a case of meningitis, loses “all trace of intelligence,” but, as
in an Oliver Sacks case study, becomes obsessed with music and convinced he is
a great musician. In “Vile Creatures,” an unnamed observer in a brothel eavesdrops
on the talk between five of the girls during an idle moment, as they trade
stories of their tragic pasts and dreary present, their hopes (or lack thereof)
for the future. In “Poverty,” the narrator rests his tale squarely on the
emotional instabilities caused by money worries in the relationship between a
poor accountant and his wife and stepmother. “House for Sale” depicts an
extreme case of submission and self-abasement when a property owner is cowed by
unscrupulous buyers into letting his home go for next to nothing. In “The
Boardinghouse,” the relationship between two elderly neighbors who over the
years share small talk in the hallway between their rooms but otherwise fail to
connect is revealed as an intractable and terrible dependence when one of them
sickens and dies. A similar social distance appears in “First Love,” perhaps the
tale most indicative of Tozzi’s modus
operandi. Over a mere six pages, the affection of two schoolchildren for
one another is tested over several ensuing years; readers expecting from the
title something heartwarming will be disappointed to find instead a tale of
young people attracted and ultimately repelled by timidity, jealously, and the
boy’s immature fits of pique, leaving the characters at a greater distance than
they were at the story’s beginning.
Tozzi’s stories, while driven by an interest in psychology,
occasionally wander into imaginative territory that flirts with surrealism. “The
Crucifix” begins with a disorienting description of a scarcely-formed
primordial world:
I thought: a world of God’s creation is
left unfinished. Its matter is not alive, not dead. The vegetation is all
identical in this world, and the rough sketches of formless beasts are unable
to move out from their muck because they have neither legs nor eyes.
The plans in this world cannot be
distinguished by their color – because they have none. This world would also
have its own odor – but only when spring is approaching; and so it’s a rather
muddy smell. Adam is there, too – a rough version of him – he has no spirit, no
soul. He cannot talk or see, but he feels the mire around him moving, and it
frightens him.
There is neither a sun nor a moon. This
world lies in the loneliest corner of infinity, where there are no stars, where
a lone comet goes to die, as if in exile. This half-life is more ancient than
our own.
This peculiar flight of imagination offers no hint that the
story will actually turn on the fate of a wretched, abused girl of the streets
as well as on the narrator’s conflicting desires both to protect and rescue her
from such a terrible state and to avoid being seen as just another abuser. “The
Idiot” is an even more imaginative effort, in which Tozzi attempts to relay the
inner thoughts of a retarded child. This might in itself have been a novel
experiment for someone writing at beginning of the 20th century, but
Tozzi complicates the idea further by having the child relay his thoughts
through transference via an imaginary conversation between the King of Spades
and Queen of Hearts, playing cards the child finds in the yard, dampened by
rain. The contrast between the violent extremes of thought that run through the
child’s head and the placid, drooling face the rest of the world sees is
dramatic. And in “The Clocks,” a tale that seems part-Poe, part-Ionesco, the
death of a collector of clocks is accompanied by the clocks’ slowing down and
stopping, one by one.
Despite their being highly artful, Tozzi’s stories, like the
those of Giovanni Verga (and decidedly unlike those of D’Annunzio), eschew references
to literature, avoiding “the veils and imposition of literary artifice.” Books
appear only a few times in this collection, as in “Mad for Music,” where the
mentally-damaged Roberto Falchi’s best friend is “an eccentric” who, having
“lost his mind two years earlier,” writes “a book or two a day…filling the
pages with delirious ramblings.” In “The Miracle,” a man dwelling on death is
awakened by an encounter with a Madonna hanging in his room and suddenly begins
to devour every book he can find, reading “until he couldn’t breathe, and his
eyes couldn’t take anymore.” The peculiar treatment of literature by Tozzi is
also visible in “Vile Creatures,” when one of the girls questions another:
Frenchie asked Sara, “What are you
reading?
“A novel.”
“Is it good?”
“Is it good?”
“So-so,” answered Sara, careful not to
reveal how she felt about the book.
“Who’s the author?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you look?”
Translator Minna Proctor’s informative introduction suggests
that Tozzi, though long admired by his followers such as Alberto Moravia, is
only beginning to receive more widespread recognition as one of Italy’s great
modern short story writers. In addition to 120 short stories, he wrote five
novels as well as poetry, plays and essays, though is perhaps best known in
Italy for Novale, a collection of Tozzi’s correspondence with his
life-long partner Emma Palagi, collected by her after his death and supplied
its curious title, a neologism, by Luigi Pirandello. And while a few of his
novels have been translated into English, Love in Vain appears to be the
only collection of stories available so far. It’s a pity, since Tozzi’s stories
possess a freshness and contemporaneity that make them seem as though they
could have been written recently, rather than 100 years ago – models of the
kind of limited scope, minimalist, restrained slices of slightly distorted life to which so many
writers today aspire. And in the end the tales may not be as dark as they at first
seem. When in “A Miracle” the bookish main character convinces himself that
“with delicious certainty, deep inside, he was a child,” we’re treated to a
kind of benign lunacy, a man who revels in watching water, envisioning
creatures dancing along the wind-blown grain, and in hugging trees – a
solipsistic madness, true, but an affirming one.
You can call me odd but the negativity of the titles and even the to some extent the darkness of the cover draw me in to some extent.
ReplyDeleteI find that psychological tales with surreal elements are often very enjoyable.
Thanks, Brian. I believe this one might be up your alley. I hasten to clarify that it's not so much that there are Surrealistic elements here, but that Tozzi seems to be pushing along the edges of movements like Surrealism and Futurism and the Literature of the Absurd, as though anticipating the kinds of approaches that other writers would soon be taking or had just been starting to take at the time. I didn't mention either that most of these stories were written during WWI, which does not appear in them except perhaps obliquely in their themes of death and a search for peace that few of his characters find.
DeleteI've been slowly working my way through this for a while. I find I really like Tozzi - House for Sale in particular, which I was going to write a post about, but never got round to it. I thought in manner he was quite like two other overlooked writers from around the same time, Robert Walser and Emmanuel Bove. And yes, the introuduction is good, particular the story about him and Emma.
ReplyDeleteI'm pleased to know you're liking this too. I have not read Bove, but the Walser comparison seems apt. Perhaps it's just my own low expectations, as noted above, but I found Tozzi's stories rather constantly surprising, as though the dreariness was a veneer.
DeleteI should have written more about Tozzi's relationship with Emma Palagi, as it struck me as highly unusual, maybe especially in that it began as an epistolary exchange and to a significant extent stayed one. I would love to read Novale some day; from the introduction to this volume, Federico and Emma's letters to one another seem to fall somewhere between mere correspondence and a riveting novel.
Tozzi sounds like one of those crazy, short-lived writers of intense short-stories from the turn of the century like Geza Csath and Horacio Quiroga. There's nothing in Portuguese by him since the 1960s. I'll give him a look.
ReplyDeleteHe's a surprising find. I've never heard of Csath and have yet to get to Quiroga, so I'm of no use whatsoever in responding to those connections, but I liked this little book quite a lot.
DeleteFascinating post, Scott. Once again you introduce me to a new author, one who sounds ripe for rediscovery. A little like Brian, I am drawn to dark, melancholy fiction - not sure why, but there we have it. Plus, I love that cover - it would certainly catch my attention if I stumbled across it in a bookshop. Do you know who painted the image on the cover?
ReplyDeleteRobert Walser is an interesting comparison. I've yet to read him, but I do have a collection of his stories tucked away somewhere. One for the future.
I think you'd like these stories, Jacqui. The painting on the cover is Testa di Contadina Strabica (1920), by Primo Conti, and that's all I know about that.
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