"The Great Lost Moment" - Raffaele La Capria's The Mortal Wound

“In the sunlit lands of the far South there is a kind of secret ministry for the defence of Nature against Reason, a sort of all-powerful genius loci, which watches over the unbroken sleep of the inhabitants.”  - Anna Maria Ortese, “Strange Apparition”

Among my favorite discoveries in Italian literature this year has been Raffaele La Capria’s 1961 novel The Mortal Wound (Ferito a Morte, English translation 1964 by Marguerite Waldman). La Capria is one of the Neapolitan writers whom Anna Maria Ortese, in The Sea Doesn’t Bathe Naples, criticizes for exercising “an art apparently rooted in arid desperation.” In The Mortal Wound La Capria returns the favor: one of his characters explicitly references Ortese’s title, rejecting a point of view that dwells on “the two Naples, one a rigged-up affair, the other the real life. The Naples bathed by the sea and the Naples of the back alleys, Vesuvius and counter-Vesuvius. And so forth and so on.“ Though the two authors diverge in their approaches to literature, they share a bred-in-the-bone affection for their city fused with a scathing condemnation of its failings. In The Mortal Wound, La Capria levels his entire generation; the book, a portrait of dissolution and paralysis, emerged as among the most important novels of postwar Naples.[i]

La Capria’s title, The Mortal Wound, refers to Naples itself, both setting and subject of this fascinating and moving work, which in addition boasts of two noteworthy characteristics that have placed it on the literary map. First, it contains the first reference to pasta puttanesca, in a brief but entertaining passage that does little to shed light on the notoriously-named dish other than to suggest a Syracusan origin. Second, The Mortal Wound served as a key inspiration for director Paolo Sorrentino’s Academy Award-winning 2013 film The Great Beauty (La Grande Bellezza). One can recognize discrete elements of the novel in the film, but readers expecting a faithful correspondence may be disappointed: the similarities are almost entirely thematic and in the works’ overarching tone of nostalgic regret.

Lyrical and atmospheric, The Mortal Wound uses a polyphonic set of narrators and a mixture of dialogue, interior monologue, and free indirect discourse, peppered by frequent flashbacks, to capture the generation of Neapolitans from World War II into the years preceding Italy’s “Boom,” and covering the period of mayor Achille Lauro’s transformation of the city that saw incomes rise in tandem with organized crime and corruption; civic improvements as well as rampant real estate speculation; and a pursuit of profit that saw cherished aspects of old Naples quickly razed in a rush to riches.

La Capria filters this portrait largely through Massimo DeLuca, eldest son of a once well-off family now reduced nearly to ruin but still clinging to the manners and habits of its former prosperity. Sifting through the complexity of the novel’s narrative style - translator Waldman’s choice to place portions of the text into italics, ostensibly to facilitate distinction between the novel’s shifting narrators, is of marginal help - one pieces together Massimo’s life.

The young Massimo spends much of his time hanging around clubs, cafés and casinos, engaging in repetitive discourse about Neapolitan torpor and entrapment, of the “southern labyrinth” where the exertion of reason is useless, of those who leave and those who stay, of fortunes made in the Americas, of the differences between Pommery and Veuve Cliquot. Massimo’s coterie of ruined Neapolitans of all ages, “a community of idlenesses,” find little to do with themselves other than gamble for days on end and chase sensuality (L’Oro di Napoli, the 1957 film by La Capria’s close friend Vittorio di Sica, features an amusing portrait of a gambler La Capria might have used as a model). The best minds of Massimo’s generation - not starving, hysterical, or naked, but passive and pliant - watch their lives pour through their fingers. Even the recent war evokes a bitter nostalgia: “If nothing ever happens in Naples, you say, when war breaks out, for better or worse something’s got to happen even here. Because look, Massimo said, ‘a war seems better than the way I spend my days, without knowing where to go or what to do.’” Arguments fizz out with a whimper; when one character challenges another to a duel, he’s ridiculed for both the anachronism and the economics of the idea: “…so much for the doctor, so much for the taxi, so much for the reconciliation supper.”

Acutely afflicted by the city’s intractable hold, Massimo nonetheless remains distinct and aloof from the others, and feels most at home while diving for fish in the Bay of Naples with his younger brother, Nini. “Under water,” as Massimo’s journalist friend Gaetano asks him, “you forget even that you were born, don’t you?” La Capria repeatedly plays with the contrast between this silent undersea beauty and the grinding city above, his submarine passages turning into flights of lyrical prose, an escape into a magical world:

The breathing of the sea covered and uncovered the rock extended below the water like the wreck of a ship. Round it pressed the dense blue, probed in vain by conical sun-shafts, by luminous barbs. Tiny green wrasse and rainbow wrasse, butterfly-blennies, blue damsel-fish and saddled bream, drawn forward and pushed back by that breathing, for an instant hovering black in that deep blue light, then immediately hurled back again invisible against the carpet of brown seaweed.

If parts of Naples have not been bathed by the sea, the same cannot be said of what the sea receives from Naples. An environmental consciousness pervades The Mortal Wound, as the enchanting world in which Massimo seeks refuge is imperiled by garbage, industrial waste and sewage, as well as by the collateral damage from German, British and American attacks on the city during the war, such as the devastating and lingering effects of phosphorus bombs.

Despite these assaults, Nature remains the triumphant enemy. The city is “The Virgin Forest,” a once glorious European capital fallen into a pitiable, inert modern state now bypassed by the currents of History, the “blue line running through countries and cities: New York, London, Paris, Zurich, Rome, even Rome! But there the line suddenly veers, indeed recoils in horror and runs off…to the north.” The DeLuca family’s parallel decline is atmospherically woven into their living quarters, the Palazzo Medina (identifiable as the real-life Palazzo Donn’Anna), a crumbling 300-year-old edifice not so much bathed by the bay as being swallowed by it:

The façade, more exposed to the sea, is a trifle out of true; has it given way at the base or is that only an impression? as though the ebb and flow of waves had rotted the foundation? Wind and salt water eating away the blocks of tufa, now concave and gritty, only their edges jut out with the lime and bricks; a constant imperceptible crumbling; if you pass your finger over it you can feel the yellow dust coming away. For the past three hundred years the palace has withstood the moods of the sea, the blows of waves and bombs, but the centuries will conquer it with patience, millimetre by millimetre, until the quiet Neapolitan waters will claim their victory on a beautiful day like this, as they are already doing over the three or four surviving buttresses of Pollione’s villa under Cape Posilippo, and fishes will swim in the rooms rendered unrecognizable by marine incrustations, the erosions of waved and corroding mollusks. Only a matter of time.

This same abandonment to Nature is reflected in daily lives of Massimo and those around him, a fatal Neapolitan passivity that impedes forward motion and keeps its inhabitants rooted in place. Even Capri, glittering on the horizon, exists only as a far-away dream neither of the young brothers has ever visited. Gaetano jokingly suggests that Neapolitans should install “a lovely neon sign, very large, at the top of Vesuvius, for everyone to read: WHOEVER STAYS WILL BE DEFEATED.”

And yet Massimo stays. Ruminating on a letter from Gaetano, who has left Naples and written to ask, “Why are you still there?” Massimo ruminates, “And how could I tell him the absurd thing, how am I to tell him: to find again a single one of those days intact as it used to be, to find it by chance, one morning, going out with the fishing boat and the gun?” The intact moment Massimo seeks most is a certain night with Carla Boursier – she herself passes through the novel like an elusive ghost - the “great lost moment” of Massimo’s life (recognizable in Jep Gambardella’s retreat into similar memories in La Grande Belezza), a past, fleeting fantasy of love and promise that haunts Massimo and holds him like an anchor.

This is one sad book. Regarding those who do manage to get away, La Capria omits details of their sojourns in Rome and elsewhere, as though Neapolitanism is so entrenched as to blot out anything unrelated to it. But the almost unrelenting paralysis is partially set off by the southern Italian wit and creativity of those of Massimo’s coterie who somehow manage to make it into middle age without having succumbed to the “dream of the new car, the sports model, money…narrow lives, in a circle of scruffy friends.” Dissolute playboys and bon vivants, they trade goods on the black market, flit among and live off the rich foreigners who visit Capri and Ischia, survive by solely through their wits and not inconsiderable wit. A dark but sharp humor is woven into La Capria’s novel. For instance, one of Massimo’s friends is named Rossomalpelo, a literary joke referencing Verga’s grim short story featuring one of the most unfortunate characters in any literature. Here, he’s among those who leave, and when Massimo runs into him again in Naples after many years, he’s a successful architect, “well-informed and capable of indignation,” helping to pile Lauro’s shoddy modern edifices onto the historic old buildings of the city. If Massimo’s generation has wallowed in indifference and idleness, they partially compensate by a vivid humor and capriciousness. The final chapters, for all the spiritual emptiness they display, are injected with gags and scams that would be laugh out loud funny (particularly a stunt that Nini pulls in Capri’s famous Blue Grotto) were not they emblematic of something stunted and immature in men who have allowed their time to pass them by.

There’s a certain heroism in this dissolution, as conveyed in one character’s disparaging remark offering up Romans as a contrast, referring to their “…dreams of modest happiness, the acme of prudence at the age of twenty, they never once compromise themselves with a daring remark: tactical and practical.” “The mortal wound” of Naples, however, presents one a limited set of choices: to leave for a more mundane world, to abandon the struggle and succumb entirely, or to reinvent oneself, however meanly and hopelessly. As Sasà, disgraced in middle age but once the paragon of youth among Massimo’s friends, asserts: “You see, in a city where seventy per cent have no regular employment you’ve simply got to invent something, don’t you? They force us to.”

Displaying almost none of the determined activism of Anna Maria Ortese’s work, The Mortal Wound nonetheless conveys its “arid desperation” with sensitivity, lyricism and humor, and above all with a fierce and fatal appreciation of Naples itself. La Capria movingly depicts a generation that, in failing to escape or to act, in a simultaneous submission to and rejection of Naples’ “absurd scale of values,” has little to honor in life other than those maddeningly ambiguous, Neapolitan gifts of resistance, reinvention, and a terminal, blind refusal to capitulate despite certain defeat.   

 Image: Paul Klee, "Fish Magic," 1925, Philadelphia Museum of Art; this same image was used for the cover of the original 1961 Bompiani edition of Ferito a Morte. 

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[i] Though the novel is second in a trilogy, “Tre Romanzi del una Giornata” (Three Novels of a Day), the books, published approximately ten years apart, can be read as stand-alone works (the first, A Day of Impatience [1952], is also available in an English translation by William Weaver).

An Early Ortese: The Sea Doesn't Bathe Naples

Giovana Bianco and Pino Valente, site specific installation, 

 Museo Madre contemporary art museum, Naples, 2015

For a Neapolitan work to begin with the words “It’s sunny! Oh, it’s sunny!” is pretty much a guarantee that a leveling blow waits just around the corner. Anna Maria Ortese’s powerful 1953 book, Il mare non bagna Napoli - The Sea Doesn’t Bathe Naples, or as translated in substantially modified form in a hard-to-find 1955 English edition by Frances Frenaye, The Bay is Not Naples - delivers numerous knock-out punches, revealing a different side of the author than that displayed in The Iguana. Ill-equipped for the Italian original, I made do with Frenaye’s edition, which contains eight pieces, three added by the translator, who also subtracts a sizable chunk of the longest of Ortese’s themes. As the book is so difficult to obtain in English, I’ll be less restrained than usual in providing details.

Il mare non bagna Napoli – which saw the light of day thanks to the enthusiastic efforts of Elio Vittorini and Italo Calvino - offers devastating critiques of the city. In a style that marks much post-war Neapolitan writing (and echoes the blend of fact and fancy of Curzio Malaparte’s portrait of 1944 Naples in The Skin), Ortese combines journalism with fiction to get at Naples’ inexorable social problems. Along the way, she takes to task her fellow Neapolitan writers for having rejected the “blue sky” writing of an earlier generation only to “replace it with an art apparently rooted in arid desperation.” This last phrase, articulated in the “The Silence of Reason,” the excerpt from the long piece truncated by Frenaye, both characterizes the prevailing Neapolitan style and points up Ortese’s rejection of its lack of determination to fight back. In the book’s pointed views of both Naples and those who wrote about it, Il mare non bagna Napoli struck the city’s readers - and especially its writers - like a tsunami.

Moving progressively from a neorealist literary style to a more journalistic one, Frenaye’s translation of Ortese’s book begins with four pieces focused on daily life in Naples’ poorest quarters, where Ortese had spent a good portion of her youth. The first piece, “A Pair of Glasses,” an increasingly gritty story with a Katherine Mansfield-style attention to the lives of children, concerns Eugenia, a young girl in a grim apartment building whose family splurges to buy her a first pair of eyeglasses that reveal to her both the gloriousness of the world and the undeniable misery of her immediate surroundings. “The Sea and Naples” continues Ortese’s depiction of this squalid neighborhood, reaching a tragic nadir with the death of a baby by “an accidental fall” from a window after her father “by sheer chance struck the baby” while beating the child’s mother (the lancing italics are Ortese’s). A portrait of domestic life in the mold of Matilde Serao follows: “Family Scene” delivers just what its title promises while plunging the hallowed Italian notion of “family” into the same chilled cauldron of dry-ice dry irony to which “sunny” has been consigned. Concluding this section of the book is a snapshot of Neapolitan street life, “The Gold of Forcella,” depicting the rough neighborhood named in the title and the quiet desperation with which its residents wait in a pawn shop in the hope of redeeming some prized object for a few thousand lira.

In “A City in Spite of Itself,” Ortese takes a turn that might seem abrupt were her goal simply to produce a series of short stories. Instead, this piece is riveting journalism as filtered through a fiction-writer’s eye, an exploration of the vast Granili III-IV apartment block, a converted military building on Naples’ outskirts that, at the time of Ortese’s visit, housed some 3,000 people packed 20-25 to a room. Ortese here digs deeply into the wretchedness of life among Naples’ poor after the war, many living in conditions as bad or worse than they suffered during the occupation and bombing. Simultaenously, the story presents an unforgettable portrait of the determined “matriarch” of the building, Signora Antonia Lo Savio. Ortese’s account of her initial meeting of Lo Savio demonstrates the author’s remarkable hybrid style, in which it’s easy to see how a surrealistic element might emerge in later works:

A woman swollen up like a dying bird, with black hair hanging over the hump on her back and a lemon-yellow face dominated by a big pointed nose, which came down all the way to a harelip, stood brandishing a comb in front of a jagged mirror, while she held a bunch of hairpins in her mouth. ‘Just a minute,’ she said when she saw me, and she even smiled…She must have been the offspring of hideously diseased parents, and yet there was something regal in the way she walked and talked. And there was something more, a bright light in her mouse-like eyes, which revealed not only her consciousness of evil in all its ramifactions [sic], but also a very human zest in combatting it.

That someone makes an effort to provide essential services in this inhuman inferno only marginally eases the grimness of Ortese’s essay, as evident in her account of the youngest denizens of the apartment block:

There was nothing childlike about these children except their age. They were little men and women, already acquainted with everything, with the beginning of life and its end, already eroded by poverty, idleness and vice, burdened with sickly bodies and twisted minds, wearing imbecile or corrupt smiles on their faces, artful and at the same time acting with a desolate indifference. Ninety percent of them, Antonia told me, are tubercular or susceptible to tuberculosis, that is when they are not rachitic or tainted with syphilis from their fathers and mothers. They are accustomed to witnessing their parents’ intercourse and the imitation of it is their favourite game, indeed almost the only one they have except for throwing stones.

These are the children “lucky” enough to survive. In a scene scoured of all sentimentality, Ortese describes rushing out with Lo Savio to where a young boy has fallen dead while at play with his friends. Neighbors gather: “Now they were taking him to the Morgue for examination, and parents and friends had turned the occasion into a sort of funeral, the simplest funeral I had ever seen. The dead boy wasn’t in a coffin but in the arms of his mother, a yellowish woman who looked half like a fox and half like a dustbin.”

Ortese’s lengthy interrogation of her fellow writers in “The Silence of Reason” provides an invaluable glimpse into the Neapolitan literati of her time – though not a particularly flattering one. It’s a shame that this piece has been cut, as one seldom encounters a writer so sober and burningly direct in criticizing her own circle of writers from within. Organized around a peripatetic series of home visits with Luigi Compagnone, Domenico Rea, Raffaele La Capria and, presumably, others mentioned at the essay’s beginning (Frenaye omits more than half of the piece), “The Silence of Reason” accelerates the decline in the sunny optimism about the city that began with Eugenia’s anticipation of new glasses as well as in whatever self-restraint Ortese has had up to this point. Her comments on Naples turn acidic, describing its writers as no more than anyone around them representative of:

the true Naples, all bright colours and heedlessness, and of the tradition of her ancient past – they were all a part of the current of troubled youth that ran beneath the great pile of antiquity…The city around them was what we all know: a larva stream of dollars and pus. Americans had stepped into the shoes of the Bourbons, and the syllables ‘O.K.’ were enough to cause every heart between Vicaria and Posilippo to tremble…

But Ortese’s most vitriolic condemnation appears in the final two pieces. The first of these recounts the pain of her return to Naples after a long absence to encounter only the ravages of age, dementia, and the daily wear and tear of the city on old friends. Still, Ortese manages to cull some slight romantic affection for Naples out of the blue sea and warm air, enough to push her into the book’s final piece, “A Strange Apparition.” Here she challenges the virus with which even she is infected, the sentimentality that can see “a truly exceptional city…a marvelous confusion,” only later awakening one to “the real horror, stemming from the destruction of thought itself.” As though echoing Jean-Noël Schifano’s characterization of Naples as a city run by passion, Ortese goes Schifano one further by limning “this extraordinary being, Passion,”

…as widespread as poverty, as agreeable as indolence, as dangerous as rhetoric or vice, and yet able at times to provide some consolation, and almost as lightfooted and superficial as the moon. It was to this fatuous and pernicious creature, perpetually appearing and disappearing, present everywhere and nowhere, whose name was never pronounced simply because its power was written on every side, that the City, amputated of its last vestige of thoughtfulness and indeed any semblance of mental systemization, owed its morbid and hallucinating beauty…All around lay the mad City, with children and dogs poking about in the garbage that littered its streets, with broken-down houses on either side, shattered lamp-posts, abandoned vehicles without wheels, fragments of champagne bottles, and everywhere masses of dead men’s skulls and bones. And the truly grotesque thing was this: that when the terrible First Citizen of the City passed by, these skeletons, which should normally have been weary unto death, came to life and danced in the streets; ancient jawbones shook with laughter and tears gushed out of cavernous sockets…So it was that the place knew no peace.

It seems unjust that Ortese’s book has yet to be translated in full and that the one existing translation is nearly impossible to obtain. The book clearly still serves as an important reference for contemporary writers and artists from Italy’s south. Sicilian writer Roberto Alajmo, in his amusing 2005 “anti-travelogue,” Palermo, even borrows Ortese’s title for that of a chapter in his own book (substituting Palermo for Naples), and if not already apparent to readers familiar with Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan quartet, Ortese’s book is an undeniably significant influence. Given the fever currently attaching to Ferrante’s volumes, a reissue of Ortese’s book should be a priority. Besides provoking a sobering realization that little seems to have changed in the lives of Naples’ poor over the past 60 years, Il mare non bagna Napoli gives an essential glimpse into the origins of Ferrante’s work. The first two stories of Il mare non bagna Naples are so close in atmosphere and subject to Ferrante’s books that they might even be mistaken for discarded drafts. The characters inhabit a similar courtyard apartment building, endure the same entrenched atmosphere of violence and neglect, bear Neapolitan names identical to some in Ferrante (including “Lina” and “Nunziata”), and even include, in a central, galvanizing scene, a mother devastated by the loss of her child, her “reddened fingers stuck into her hair as if to claw the brain below.” Ferrante’s work pays homage to Ortese’s overarching tone of indignation, particularly when directed at the suffering in what Ortese in one scene refers to as “the eternal story of the mothers, wives and daughters of the human race.” However similar their aims, though, these writers differ significantly: in thematic and temporal scope, certainly, and not least in Ortese’s splendid, strange language compared to Ferrante’s galloping, workhorse sentences. Nonetheless, readers of the latter writer should find Ortese’s book a mesmerizing companion to Ferrante’s Neapolitan project, as well as a daring work of both social criticism and narrative inventiveness that stands, toweringly, on its own.   

For much of the background on Il mare non bagna Napoli, I am indebted to Professor Lucia Re's long and fascinating article on the book's history, themes and reception. 

Beware of Pity: Anna Maria Ortese's The Iguana

As evidence that the influence of the weirdness of Giambattista Basile’s Neapolitan fairy-tales may have carried into the 20^th century, one might point to Anna Maria Ortese and her peculiar, compelling 1965 novel, The Iguana. With a deceptively light tone, Ortese offers up, in her modern fairy tale, both a playful toying with the purposes of literature and a deeply haunting portrayal of the development of a moral conscience.

The first of the novel's two parts, "The Man Who Buys Islands," opens in a vaguely defined temporal space merging elements of the contemporary world with those of the 19th century and before. The spoiled young Don Carlo Ludovico Aleardo de Grees, of the Dukes of Estremadura-Aleardi and Count of Milan (nickname: “Daddo”) is sent by his wealthy mother on an expedition to buy up new lands for building resorts to accommodate the leisure tastes of Milanese vacationers. At the same time, the Count’s publisher friend Adelchi urges him to scour these territories for manuscripts that might introduce “something really new, something extraordinary” to the Milanese reading public. Off the cuff, perhaps not fully comprehending Adelchi’s profit-mindedness, the Count envisions  something like the confessions of a madman who falls in love with an iguana. In Ortese’s world – one strongly influenced by the realismo magico of Massimo Bontempelli, a mentor responsible for publishing Ortese’s first works – a bit of magic produces exactly such a story, as though Daddo’s merely having imagined the tale brings it into being.

Several days into his voyage, off the coast of Portugal, the Count spots an island, Ocaña, which appears to be moving (a conceit that must be one of the most recurrent and curious in Italian literature).  The captain notes that it's still uncharted, because “good Christians…don't much bother about things that belong to the devil.” Despite this malign reputation, the island is cartoonish: a low hill, a grove of olive trees, a grey house “like a prop,” “a few sheep, some lying in the grass, some grazing, heads low, and, like all sheep, thinking perhaps of nothing.”

Beneath a tree some people are listening to another reading a book, so Daddo orders the ship to stop. These few inhabitants turn out to what’s left of a once illustrious family now reduced to ruin: Don Ilario Jimenes of the Marquis of Segovia, Count of Guzman, and his three brothers, along with a grandmotherly figure who scurries into the house at the Count’s disembarkation.

The brothers appear anxious; the Marquis – “a poet, perhaps a bibliophile, at any rate a spirit immersed in eternal fantasy,” as Daddo will soon learn - appears ill. Daddo’s first words betray his sense that something is awry: “Can I be of any help?” But the brothers receive him graciously, inviting him inside their humble home. Encountering the figure he’d seen moments before, the Count receives a shock:

Daddo’s surprise was tremendous. He had taken her for a shrunken old woman, but he was looking at an animal! In front of him was a bright green beast, about the height of a child – an enormous lizard from the look of her, but dressed in woman’s clothes with a dark skirt, a white corset, old and shabby, and a multicolored apron clearly patchworked from the family’s stock of rags. To hide her ingenuous little snout, which was a sort of whitish green, she wore yet another dark cloth on her head. She was barefoot.

As he gets to know the family, Daddo becomes increasingly obsessed by this curious being, at once so innocent, alert, grubbing and downtrodden. He is dismayed by how the brothers treat this apparent servant, Estrellita, speaking to her sharply and consigning her to a lightless basement where she sleeps amid rags and entertains herself by counting and burying a horde of stones the Count assumes she believes is her pay. The creature is a ruin, desperately afflicted and self-loathing: “She lived with a horrible suspicion. After a period, initially, when it was simply unendurable, it now so deeply grieved her that she could not address it at all: the suspicion, almost the certainty, that she herself was the Devil – ‘the spirit of the shades,’ harried by the wrath of God.” Daddo is further appalled when he learns that the brothers had purchased Estrellia, information that offends his sense of “chivalry” and an ethic that can see a “soul no different from his own and [hear its] appeal of brotherly solidarity.”

This exposition out of the way, the narrative then traces Count Aleardo’s efforts to restore Estrellita to her full human measure, while at the same time negotiating purchase and publication of the Marquis’ writings (a history of Portugal and a memoir), and also disentangling the secretive relationship between Estrellita and the Marquis against the background of a propitious impending marriage between the latter and a daughter of the Hopins family, rich Americans who’ve come to the island under obscure pretexts. Daddo’s sympathies and affection for Estrellita increase in tandem with his perception of the island’s malignance: “No, there was no such thing as order here, something even that made order impossible.”

With a tremendous sense of empathy for the destitute and miserable, Ortese sensitively depicts both the impact of the treatment doled out to Estrellita by the brothers, intent on reducing her to nothing, and Aleardo’s growth in determination to understand the iguana and her oppressors. Affecting at first a bourgeois do-gooder-ism, the Count is forced repeatedly to recalibrate his assumptions and noble intentions as they run up against new knowledge and complexities of the heart. Fog, a recurrent motif, underscores the situation’s moral opacity. With an epiphany only marginally more morally advanced than the behavior of the brothers, the Count realizes that “if the Iguana had been bought, she could be bought again and he could restore her not only to her freedom, but as well to all the dreams of her little bestial soul.” But through a continual dialectical process of re-evaluating himself and his sentiments for the poor Iguana, the Count gradually undergoes an almost Augustinian spiritual transformation, an orientation to the reality of suffering that pushes him towards being “healed of his fantasizing mind.”

Ortese uses Aleardo’s tossed-off story idea to delve into a range of themes, philosophical questions and metafictional devices unusual to find in a single volume, particularly one with such a fabulist bent. She queries the shadow line between animal and human; the nature of evil; the neglectful treatment of the natural world and the environment; the ability to transform moral indignation into numb acquiescence and vice-versa; the perils of assumptions, rescue fantasies and pity; the monstrous damages that poverty, isolation, and oppression can inflict; the hidden injuries of class; the destructive impact of speculation and profiteering; the damaging claims on knowledge made by an imperialist mentality (among other things, The Iguana ingeniously recycles that staple of European literature, the encounter with the exotic). Ortese even addresses the dubious place of God through a scene featuring a trial over the death of God that is at the same time surreal, moving and amusing (“’Where were the accused?’ inquired the judge…‘On their yachts, sir,’ answered Cole”). Ortese appears to reserve particular scorn for Milanese/Lombard values, castigating “the violence Lombards typically employ in doing good works,” and seeing in these northerners “a severe and almost stupid simplicity of heart that asks God no questions, awaiting only His orders and then giving them execution with infantile sense of scruple” (in Italy’s north-south division, it’s abundantly clear where Ortese’s sympathies lie).

Ortese’s manner of injecting these thematic elements initially seems jarring, almost as though, in planning her novel, she might have left unrevised placeholders for ideas later to be developed and emulsified into her narrative. However, one quickly comes to see this as a deliberate stylistic device; as a fairy tale, The Iguana leaves its viscera visible, as though the story's latent and manifest content were exposed in equal proportion. Like Bontempelli, Ortese also makes off with all kinds of authorial privilege, frequently appealing to “you the Reader” as though speaking aloud, slotting in subjects she wants to address, even announcing that she’s going to shift narrative direction. Ortese evinces both a mastery of literary devices and a playful distaste, paradoxical in so challenging a work, for the uses to which they are too often put. Freely, even mercilessly, she constantly reminds the reader that The Iguana is a fiction, in the process probing fiction’s purposes and meaning. From the beginning, the narrative attacks the commodification of literature (“purposely designed to excite precisely those feelings of perplexity and boredom that were a sure guarantee of good sales”). And like Bontempelli's own realismo magico, Ortese’s fantasy elements enhance the world rather than offer escape from it. Often as not, the “magic” is but a simple trick of perception, as when Daddo spies a light over the hill that he takes to be Ocaña’s “second moon,” but which reveals itself to be the lamp of a ship – or more accurately, both the lamp of a ship and a second moon. Everything on Ocaña multiplies and transforms; characters take on other names and other personalities; the olive trees become oaks; the “prop” house on the island becomes a “splendid” mansion; Estrellita is at once lizard, crone and serving girl. Time too is topsy-turvy; towards the end of the novel the Count notes that he’s been on the island only since the previous day, while on the same page another character suggests that years have passed since his arrival.

These metamorphoses plunge the reader into no small amount of confusion. Ortese’s title for the second part of the novel, “The Storm,” underscores this turbulence (and further points allusively to Shakespeare's The Tempest). Yet Ortese frequently tosses out subtle lifelines, even fusing the reader’s struggles at understanding with those of the Count himself:

He managed nonetheless to discern these words, in which reality and symbol were desperately, unfortunately intermingled, as in avant-garde novels…It was difficult to remember so many shiftings, just as it was difficult to see them in the first place, difficult to make distinctions within these continuous superimpositions of the real and the unreal…

Ortese wants the reader to work. Though the novel's tone is at times as light as a cloud, the questions the novel raises are as weighty as those in Camus’ The Plague. And while neither the numerous twists and transformations in the plot nor the demanding issues Ortese raises make for easy reading, The Iguana is a novel that sticks in the mind long after finishing it, not least thanks to the memorable and affecting character of the book’s title, whose wrenching protests of “Nao, nao, nao!” remain with one like an irreparable betrayal.

French-Sicilian writer Jean-Noel Schifano, in his Dictionnaire Amoureux de Naples, a collection of essays formed around each letter of the alphabet, selected Anna Maria Ortese as his entry for “O.” Though Ortese was born in Rome and passed her final decades in Rapallo, she called Naples “my native city,” having spent formative years in a poor neighborhood where, to borrow the title of one of Ortese’s earliest works, “the sea doesn’t bathe Naples.” The city would largely remain the geographical and psychological pole around which this remarkable autodidact's work would revolve (including as setting for a surrealist detective novel featuring as its principal character an Arizona mountain lion). Ortese is slowly coming to be recognized as one of Italy’s most important and distinctly original post-war writers. “She makes us think about things we do not normally think about,” writes Schifano in his appreciative essay. And while The Iguana, with its fantastical elements, gives ample evidence to support Schifano's pronouncement, it's also a book that displays an engagement with the realities of human suffering characteristic of much Neapolitan literature, disturbing our complacency concerning a status quo that works “to the harm of people who are weaker than we are…Something in our education, in our way of seeing the world, some fundamental error that calls down calamity on a great number of people.” One emerges from Ortese’s book in sympathy with Count Aleardo's life-changing encounter on this strange moving island, feeling that despite everything, "the world...is really such a beautiful place...the Universe something gracious," yet also with the conviction that literature is a force that can be used "to strike against" misery and injustice. While perhaps this may not be exactly what Aleardo's friend Adelchi had in mind, The Iguana makes a strong claim for indeed being "something really new, something extraordinary," a feat of real imagination to offer to readers fed on fantasy.

Neapolitan Sextet: Jean-Noël Schifano's Chroniques napolitaines

French-Italian writer Jean-Noël Schifano’s Chroniques Napolitaines (1984) contains six tales built around actual persons and events from the Naples of the late 15^th to mid-17^th centuries, brought to life through a combination of linguistic virtuosity, scholarly care and attention to detail, and capacious imagination, making the book an impressive short work of historical fiction. A warning and a pity: the book is unavailable in English.

For anyone still reading, another warning: the tales in Chroniques Napolitaines make for one blood-drenched book. For Schifano, the only French citizen ever to have been named an honorary citizen of Naples, the city where he lived for many years is a one “of bad Catholics and great sinners…capable of anything out of passion,” where the Neapolitan eye is “a demand for forgiveness that accuses,” and where “the passion of love” is only equaled by “the passion for vengeance.” Here the main streets of ancient Naples, Spaccanapoli and Toledo, are a cross on which the city is “every day crucified, every day resuscitated.”  Drawing on old records and anecdotes, yet inserting occasional references to the present as though taking the reader on a guided tour of centuries, Schifano’s versions of these stories depict dramatic love affairs, vicious acts of revenge, frenzied political revolts, and barbaric and bizarre tortures (a punishment for parricide involved throwing the convict into the sea inside a sack shared by a dog, monkey and viper). But Schifano also marvels at the less physically violent aspects of the city: its feverish baroque intensity in both life and art; its citizens’ fierce pride and bristling rejection of orthodoxy and rigidity, particularly when imposed by foreign interlopers (the historical scope of the stories falls largely within the Spanish rule of the city); the manner in which the thick mantle of the past continually oozes up through the lava-black streets into the present.

Schifano’s work contains a plethora of fascinating historical details about Naples. References to the presence of the past in the many-layered city abound, including Schifano’s mention of the discovery in 1973, in subterranean chambers beneath the National Archives, of poems by Tirenella, a female poet, who, like a “Louise Labé of Naples,” wrote in dialect of “tyrannical torments.” Another tale mentions Neapolitan desserts of the period, including “Monks’ Fleas,” rounded cakes dusted with burned bits of ground almonds, and “Oranges of Crime,” eaten with three-quarters of the pulp replaced by a mixture of honey and fresh pig’s blood. A Neapolitan was never said to be “crazy,” but to have “parted into the imagination.” Here amid the garbage piles roamed the zoccola, a cat-sized race of “indestructible” rats. And here in a city that smells “of fish when the sun rises and sulfur when it sets,” one encountered everywhere “the secret watchword” of all Neapolitans: “Chi m’o fa fa?” – “Who’s going to make me?”

The drama and violence of Schifano’s Naples evince themselves in the first story, which recounts the furious love affair between the wife of composer Carlo Gesualdo and the Duke of Andria, and the brutal punishment dispensed by the composer when the affair is discovered. Another story, “La felouque du vice-roi,” briefly recaps the brief reign of fisherman-turned-revolutionary Massaniello, the capopopolo or “boss of the people,” who in 1647 led a bloody and short-lived populist revolt against the city’s Spanish rulers. In “Grecs Intermedes,” Schifano – who evidently relishes mining the city’s history for intriguing cases - explicitly refers readers to source documents for an extraordinary trial in which both a tailor and the donkey with which he had been accused of committing an unnatural act were convicted and publically hanged. Schifano nakedly conveys both the atrocity and absurdity of this scene, including an entire paragraph of taunts from the young lazzaroni who mock with cruel laughter the spectacle of the tailor being led through Naples’ streets, his bare feet tethered with leather straps to the hind legs of the donkey plodding before him. This anecdote opens the tale of Tiberio de Vela, scion of a noble family, one of the city’s most notorious “sodomites,” and proud member of the Camorra, then a fraternal honor society scarcely less criminal than its contemporary incarnation. For a period of two years, de Vela roamed about with his gang, stealing young boys off the streets and taking them to an estate by the steaming fumaroles of Pozzuoli near the sulfurous Phlegraean Fields to the north of the city. Here, fantastically orchestrated orgies occurred until universal dismay at the failure of the miraculous monthly “liquefaction” of San Gennaro’s blood in the cathedral of Naples, having until then occurred without interruption for 13 centuries, forced the authorities to abandon the blind eye turned to de Vela’s obscenities and conferred by his family’s status, and give the people a gruesome public punishment - not for readers with weak stomachs - commensurate with the drama of the failed miracle.

Schifano has a formidable dexterity with language and a keen ability to imagine the dialogue of the time, mining French for archaic, arcane idioms and vocabulary and sprinkling his narrative with words and phrases from Neapolitan dialect. Without sacrificing any wealth of description or essentials of the history, Schifano also condenses grand events into compact packages; all but one of the stories come in under 35 pages, and even the longest one is divided into linked stories.

This long story, “Les heures contraires” (The Contrary Hours, referring to a Neapolitan term for that time of afternoon when the Neapolitan heat seems to make the city a purgatory of souls caught between flames and death), plunges the reader fully into Naples’ gritty ruthlessness (and since Chroniques napolitaines is unavailable in English, I’ll supply perhaps too much plot detail). Schifano’s stories often link discrete anecdotes as though layering impressions upon the reader, and “Les Heures Contraires” is no exception. Using as a motif the common 16^th century practice of poisoning as a means of dispensing of enemies, Schifano begins with an episodic series of poisonings. These culminate in a lengthy account of events that unfolded during the reign of Don Pedro of Toledo. This ill-educated, rapacious Spanish libertine, jealous of the pagan liberties of Neapolitan youth, who “worshipped at the same time Isis, Osiris, the Virgin and Holy Child, the sun and the moon, the member of Priapus and the cross of Christ,” provoked a wave of sexually-driven violence in the city such that even cloisters were not immune.

The most notorious of these incursions occurred in the convent of Sant’Arcangelo di Baiano in Forcella, among the fiercest of Naples’ neighborhoods. Schifano restores to its proper Neapolitan origins this tale borrowed by Stendhal and removed to Tuscany in one of his unfinished “Italian Chronicles.” Into this convent a number of daughters of noble families were inducted in order to put an end to adolescent love affairs and thus prevent scandal and matches unpropitious to the families’ welfare. Schifano sensitively depicts the conflicts of these young novices, who, far from being religious devotees, were essentially prisoners. A scene depicting a young girl’s depilation as part of her “eternal” consecration into Sant’Arcangelo is chilling, as is a scene in which the ambitious new abbess wins protection for the convent by allowing a powerful duke into the convent to rape her own 12-year-old niece.

Subterfuges the girls use to continue to see their lovers often result in disaster. Suitors of two young novices are assaulted by thugs hired by the girls’ families, their bloodied bodies thrown into the convent to die in front of the eyes of the girls (who in revenge conspire to poison the mother superior). When another novice attempts to conceal her lover inside a crate containing a clavier, the delivery, accidentally left in the courtyard to bake under the hot sun, causes the young man to suffocate rather than risk breaking out and compromising his beloved’s honor. Schifano’s omniscient narrator follows another novice who, thanks to a door left unlocked, escapes one night to join a gentleman with whom she is infatuated, but is first castigated by the man for violating her vows, then taken by him, then discovered upon her return. Finally, two fetuses are found discarded next to the convent. Fury erupts out of shock that a mother could kill her own babies (and not, in pagan Naples, out of any religious objection). In the only major European city where, thanks to the “ferocious eccentricities” of its people, “the courts of the Inquisition had no right to be conducted,” the cumulative anger merges with friction in the Neapolitans’ tolerance of Spanish rule, leading to a disastrous eruption of street battles, protests before the convent, and an almost comical wave of efforts by the ecclesiastical authorities to impose inquisitional order on Sant’Arcangelo – the last checked by the intercession of the girls’ families, Neapolitan repugnance at sermonizing foreign clerics, the quick dispatch of one cleric via poison, and by the girls themselves.

In drawing the tale to a close, Schifano constructs successive anecdotes in which three of the girls deliver forceful, furious speeches. The first, Tullia, viciously lances one cleric’s authority, sending him packing simply by raising the specter of her family’s power. Subsequently, when a vicar takes refuge in the cell of another of the girls during an attack on the convent, the narrator juxtaposes both the injurious confinement and the fabulous wealth of these daughters of the rich, as the vicar is “scandalized” to see

…suspended on the walls carpeted in sunflower-colored satin embroidered with silver, two large paintings. One represented a rosy and amorous Aurora lifting into the skies of Syria the hero Cephalus, that same Greek who made love with a bear in obeisance to the oracle of Delphi, thus assuring his progeny; the other, Sélène and Endymion, the beautiful and naked boy asleep beneath the avid yellow shadow of the beautiful and naked Nyctalope, queen of the lunar work of love, descending from her starry chariot. Ostentatiously, the Vicar turned his eyes away from these profane, culpably lascivious visions, slowly directing his steps toward the door, seized abruptly by a whirlwind of thoughts and sensations as heavy and burning as the August sun that swept the second gallery without pity. But the Abbess held him back. She wished to give him the perfidious pleasure of detailing for him furnishings and curiosities, the whole inventory exchanging itself in a jealous and impossible transference between the old woman and the young.

For an entire page, the abbess continues to catalog of the room’s contents: its “ebony footstools inlaid with mother of pearl,” finely wrought silver-work basins enameled in vermillion and “filled with tulips of milky calcedonian,” marble busts of nymphs and éphèbes, “a great ivory chest with fastenings of gold and studded with garnets,” Persian rugs depicting hunting scenes, frescoes of silver putti playing among sinuous vines, grand chandeliers. When the vicar suggests to Guilia, the cell’s inhabitant, that her lodgings should possess an order more appropriate for a religious novice, the girl snarls at him:

Is it insufficient to satisfy your own extravagance…that I waste away in this atrocious solitude? I, Guilia Caracciolo di Brianza, born of a blood more illustrious than the earth, arrivals from Cunes with the first Greeks who founded Paleopolis, who with each of my steps follow the footprints of thirty centuries of armed nobles brandishing the herald of three gold bands beneath an azure field, I, of the most venerable branch of the Caracciolo, deprived of my liberty and my rights, should be disallowed play with such innocent objects because you, who were nothing before your birth, remain nothing while alive, and will be nothing after your death, should so will it?... Is it so great a crime, in this century, to embellish one’s prison cell, when one’s own parentage casts away all one’s worth, despoils it, disperses it across the world? You, civil servant of Heaven, you come here to add upon the cruelties of my cruel family; to preach charity, but invade my bedchamber to tear from the miserable a last and frivolous illusion, the beauty of time going past, the powerful dreams of humanity that course through my veins, to remind us outright of this indignity: the tender age at which, ignorant of the world save for the grandeur of our race, and prepared at any moment for the greatest gestures, for the most supreme sacrifices, we were manipulated so sinisterly in order that we renounce life!...

Chastened, but determined still to make an example, the vicar conducts an expeditious trial, held within the convent’s prayer chapel, which immediately confers sentence: several of the girls are to be imprisoned, others exiled, and the two responsible for poisoning the mother superior to be poisoned on the spot. The speech by one of these girls, Chiara, contains all of the defiance and contempt Neapolitans would expect:

Let us drink, she said, in this royal cesspool, to the health of dead souls and their black thirsts! And she drank in one gulp the viscous liquid, down to the final drop. Eufrasia let the tears course down her cheeks and whimpered, shaken by sobs sounding like some dirge of antiquity. Chiara moved close to her and helped her bring the goblet to her mouth, afterwards brushing with a gentle kiss the already tumescent flesh, bitter with the taste of the hemlock. Whether to collect the empty goblets or interrupt the girls’ embrace, the Sicaire took a step towards them. Chiara turned sharply, hurling at the feet of the armed man the two chalices, which rebounded and rolled upon the marble in twin, resonating circles. Crying aloud she addressed the tribunal and the whole assembly nailed in a stupor before the chapel’s golden aureoles: Back, cursed wasps! I am condemned to die, but stay away from me, macabre abusers from beyond the grave! I am the immaculate, unbridled! Leave us to die alone before our empty vaults, impudent preachers, unspeakable judges, away from the penetrating lasciviousness of your cadaverous eyes!

Her companion already dead, Chiara scribbles to her brother, with her last bit of strength, a note poignantly, devastatingly practical and accusatory, willing her belongings to her sister inmates and affirming that whatever fees may be due to the convent have been paid in full.

Though Schifano’s book is filled with grand characters, the star of Chroniques napolitaines is Naples itself. Woven of passion and punishment, the tales work together to forge an indelible image of a span of history in what may be the most troubled, complex and unique city of Europe. As brutal as Schifano’s tales may be, they still revel in the sharply paradoxical and often hidden splendors of Naples, as though to emulate the exaggerated chiaroscuro and saturated detail of the Neapolitan Baroque paintings of Caravaggio, Stanzione, and Gentileschi (a luxuriousness evident if one compares Schifano’s story of Sant’Arcangelo with the flat affect and spare narrative of Stendhal’s chronicle, The Abbess of Castro, which depicts violent events in another Italian convent). Above all, one senses Schifano’s awe at Naples’ human dimension, his almost obsessive passion to grasp, through its layers of the past, the city’s singularity and the almost theatrical violence of its glory and ferocity, his unflinching attempt to restore to grand measure a people “all at once the most idolatrous, skeptical and ironic people on earth…each individual creat[ing] in his own way his own tolerant religion, constituted from the gestures of the day-to-day and of millennia.” A tour de force.

Translations are my own, as are the defects of them.