An epistolary novel of slow revelations, crisp recriminations, and worn-out affections stuffed into envelopes and regrets.
A man called Giuseppe, mildly neurotic and terminally hesitant, sells his flat in Rome, ships off three trunks and embarks for Princeton to live with his brother Ferruccio, but somehow never quite manages to leave the country — geographically, emotionally, or structurally. "I am coming to America like someone who has decided to throw himself into the sea," he writes, "and hopes he will emerge either dead or new and changed."
Instead, he emerges in a blizzard of letters sent to and from friends, lovers, estranged relatives, quasi-children, actual children, and professional busybodies, all of whom treat correspondence like emotional archaeology.
His connection with Lucrezia — a woman of splendid pallor and five squabbling children, one of whom may or may not be his — forms the slow-burning, never-burning, endlessly complicated axis around which the rest of the plot turns its passive-aggressive pirouettes.
This is a novel where syntax inflicts damage that scandal cannot match, where Giuseppe's son Alberico looks "like a hearse" and Ginzburg has perfected the sentence that folds time in on itself like origami: an entire marriage, a child's birth, polio, a funeral, and a misanthropic cat all vanish into a paragraph like unpaid bills into a drawer.
Ginzburg, a Jewish-Italian survivor of Fascism and widowhood, filters epic themes through domestic ashtrays. Her characters write around their pain rather than through it, creating letters that function like emotional X-rays, revealing fractures beneath seemingly ordinary exchanges about weather, meals, and household repairs.
The war is over but no one has found peace; everyone is packing or unpacking, weaning or retreating, and Giuseppe's perpetual state of departure becomes a perfect metaphor for an entire generation that packed their trunks but remained emotionally anchored to a landscape of loss. The stolen clock becomes emblematic of Ginzburg's technique: simultaneously a real object with practical consequences and a symbol of time's theft, of how the past continues to exact its price on the present like a vindictive landlord.
This is a book that teaches you that estrangement outlasts intimacy, that houses remember while lovers forget, and that sometimes the only reasonable response to your life is to write long letters and threaten to leave.
Giuseppe never quite departs, never quite stays; his relationship with Lucrezia never clarifies into commitment or clean break — a reflection of Ginzburg's mature understanding that some connections exist in their irresolution, in a state of emotional purgatory.
Her prose is unsentimental, dry, rhythmically addictive, landing somewhere between Chekhov's exhausted clarity and the sardonic familial fatigue of people who have learned that the important conversations happen in the spaces between words. A literary gem that understands the particular loneliness of people who spend their lives writing letters they're never quite sure they'll send.
נטליה נטעה בי סערת רגשות חרישית — עצבות נוסטלגית על מה שאבד, חמלה כלפי מה שלא היה יכול להיות אחרת, ותהייה מתמשכת על בדידותם האינטימית של בני האדם. העיר והבית לא ממש סיפק עלילה אלא יותר שברי חיים, רסיסי זכרונות, אכזבות קטנות ואמיתות קשות, שמכולם עולה התובנה שגם בתוך תוכם של קשרים ויחסים ארוכי שנים, אהבות, משפחות ובתים שעומדים לתלפיות, האדם לרוב נותר בגפו. כל מכתב בספר הצליח במידה מסויימת להוות בבואה של פניי שלי, עם כל החסכים, ההחמצות והכמיהות שמדי פעם אני מפלפל בהן והן אף פעם לא יודעות שובע.