Europa Editions The Story of The Lost Child

It's hard to define exactly what makes the Neapolitan Quartet such an extraordinary achievement, and such a compelling experience for the reader; now sadly at an end with the publication of the final novel in the series (though these are books that demand repeated re-reading). On the face of it an extended bildungsroman, in fact the novels constitute something much deeper and more complex. The genius of Elena Ferrante, however, is to subvert a familiar genre in an utterly naturalistic and unselfconscious way; teasing allusions to previous incidents and elusive insights into things only half-said are weaved in to the relentless narrative with such profound subtlety that suggests the real mystery about Ferrante is whether she is some kind of psychological savant, or simply one of the most skillful novelists there has ever been. Credit must presumably also go to Ann Goldstein for preserving these delicate nuances in the English translation. This, the final book in the quartet, maintains the same position; there is no grand denouement or final twist as might have been expected, and as many novelists would no doubt have employed. For Ferrante, you feel, such a conclusion would be psychologically dishonest, and so the ending is enigmatic and in some ways unsatisfying - another example of her disregarding standard literary tropes in favour of an unflinching realism. Ultimately this is a series of novels about relationship and identity, and how we construct the former in the context of the latter. The friendship between Lenu and Lina is endlessly fascinating; what is the significance of the lifelong symbiosis in which they seem to alternate between the roles of host and parasite, rarely achieving an equilibrium? As a young woman, Elena makes her name assailing the conventional oppressions of gender and class which she believes constrain her ability to forge a different identity. But she is in fact Lina's creation; and throughout their lives Lenu defines herself in relation to Lina's expectations: sometimes striving to meet them; sometimes rebelling against; sometimes able to transcend for short periods; but always returning to the roles established in childhood. Ultimately, it seems that the final, unspoken, question for Lenu is whether she can reconstruct herself in the absence of Lina. Of course, the significance of identity as a central theme is made even more intriguing by the mystery surrounding Ferrante's herself. Personally, I have no difficulty accepting her stated reasons for wishing to preserve her anonymity, and I don't think it's necessary to infer from it that the Neapolitan novels are autobiographical. If Lenu 'is' Ferrante, then the autobiographical element must be pretty loose, otherwise her identity could be easily uncovered. But if there is an element of autobiography, surely it is more likely that Ferrante is in fact Lila? After all, the sentiment "once written, books have no further need of their authors" is heard far more readily in Lila's voice than Elena's. If so,' Lila''s authorship of the novels in the assumed voice of Lenu would represent the ultimate manifestation of their enmeshed identities. But that's the joy of these books; Ferrante disdains neat explanations, so the reader is left with endless possibilities to ponder.

In my reviews of the three previous volumes of this now completed tetralogy I vacillated between unqualified admiration and feeling melodramatically manipulated. But this fourth volume leaves no doubt in my mind that Elena Ferrante's four Neapolitan novels constitute a masterpiece. Amazingly Ferrante's stamina as a writer, far from petering out, has produced the most magnificent book yet ... and the longest! Indeed, my own stamina as a reader was tested last night /this morning, since, to my complete surprise, I read from midway at 11:00 p.m. to the end at 5:30 a.m. There was no way I was going to put the book down. For one thing there is a dramatic crescendo that demands holding fast until the subsequent diminuendo if you are to have any peace. For another there is just such beautiful writing and subtle analysis of feelings that I had definite intimations of Proust. I continue to marvel at how there can be writers like this. Obviously this final volume may derive part of its richness from acquaintance with the prequels, so you really won't want to read this until you have read the three others. Most unanswered questions from earlier are satisfyingly addressed here, and several characters are definitively enriched (in the sense of their true colors shown, since some are diminished as human beings). P.S. Oddly, Ferrante's other novels left me totally cold, even though they received critical acclaim. There's no accounting for taste, but for me the tetralogy is Ferrante coming into her (or his? -- Ferrante's identity is a bit of a mystery) own.

Genial.

Writing this close to the truth of how we feel in our heads is rarely voiced. I haven’t yet read anything like this quartet.. an amazing tale of Lenu & Lila’s childhood friendship through the years till their twilight years. A must read.

This book really comes together in the last bit. Planting suggestions about whom actually authored these books in a post-modern way, which is a reference early on in her career. Lots of references to cyclical structures to progress the plot in an ostensibly linear way. Overt mentions of themes planted in her books, which aren’t there, but also kind of are. The inability to escape patterns in childhood. The responsibility for the things we create. From the minutiae of fiction to child-rearing. It really covers a staggering amount of content and impressive draws a through-line from the very first book to now, while managing to be both surprising and inevitable. Such that the characters in their infancy may have been constructed by who she witnesses them in the neighborhood in her maturity. Fantastic stuff, as always. It does feel like a sudden break into an onslaught of events and content when you reach a certain section, only because it’s a device that I don’t think was used to that extent in previous books. But the acclimation is quick and builds to something poignant. It’s the closest thing to an annoyance I can come up with.