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اثر النا فرانته از انتشارات نشر ثالث - مترجم: سودابه قیصری-داستان تاریخی

A modern masterpiece from one of Italys most acclaimed authors, My Brilliant Friend is a rich, intense and generous hearted story about two friends, Elena and Lila. Ferrantes inimitable style lends itself perfectly to a meticulous portrait of these two women that is also the story of a nation and a touching meditation on the nature of friendship. Through the lives of these two women, Ferrante tells the story of a neighbourhood, a city and a country as it is transformed in ways that, in turn, also transform the relationship between her two protagonists.


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@The women in my stories are all echoes of real women who, because of their suffering or their combativeness, have very much influenced my imagination: my mother, a childhood girlfriend, acquaintances whose stories I know. In general I combine their experiences with my own and Delia, Amalia, Olga, Leda, Nina, Elena, Lenù are born out of that mix. But the echo that you noticed maybe derives from an oscillation inside the characters that I’ve always worked on. My women are strong, educated, self-aware and aware of their rights, just, but at the same time subject to unexpected breakdowns, to subservience of every kind, to mean feelings. I’ve also experienced this oscillation. I know it well, and that also affects the way I [email protected]
Elena Ferrante - The New York Times

@Ferrante’s Naples books are essentially about knowledge—its possibilities and its limits. Intellectual knowledge, sexual knowledge, political knowledge. What kind of knowledge does it take to get by in this world? How do we attain that knowledge? How does our knowledge change us and wound us and empower us, often at the same time? What things do we want to know and what would we prefer to leave unknown? What can we control? Who has power over our [email protected]
Rachel Donadio - The New York Review of Books

@Life has actions in it. In reading a novel, it’s profound to experience the self-in-other in memory or contemplation, but it’s sometimes just as profound to experience the self-in-other during moments of decision. In Ferrante, we have both — they’re told in the first person, but they’re the story of more than a single person, of many equally weighted people. The plotting of their stories is so skillful, indeed so unplotted, in the sense that life is unplotted, in the sense that we don’t know the future, that as readers we suddenly exist both in other actions and in their actors’ consciousness of them. Not the latter [email protected]
Charles Finch - The Millions

There are so many layers at work in this astonishing novel that I dont even know where to begin... As soon as you start reading Elena Ferrante, you know you are in the hands of an extraordinary writer whose mind, heart and natural abilities have inextricably fused in the greatest of fires. The writing takes over your days and nights, seeps into your veins like crack. Straight into your bloodstream.

Very much like Karl Ove Knausgaard, she is able to play with the clearest, most fluid language to evoke simultaneously the multitude of details of everyday life and the ever shifting patterns of the mind. The words sizzle with grace, candor, terror and light.

The birth of a friendship between two little Neapolitan girls born in 1944 becomes the conduit for a ruthless and intoxicating exploration of what it means to become yourself. What is innate and what is acquired? What part of life is random luck and predestination? What part of character is emulation and what part is natural gift? How does the will to power play out if you are born poor in an uneducated and violent environment? How much does the past affect our present lives and can you escape it?

I read this breathtaking book over the course of three days, almost in a trance, and it seems that I have no choice but to echo what Charles Finch wrote at the end of his piece on his year of reading in 2014 for The Millions:

@What I do know is that before 2014, I thought Philip Roth was the greatest novelist alive. Now, for me, he’s [email protected]

That says it all.

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@It was as if, because of an evil spell, the joy or sorrow of one required the sorrow or joy of the other; even our physical aspect, it seemed to me, shared in that [email protected]

Elena and Lila, a friendship born of necessity – the need to find another human soul that understands us, our longings and sorrows - someone to emulate, someone that drives each of us to become our very best self. These two girls, born into poverty in 1950s Naples, forge a relationship that is both captivating and completely authentic. There is something about a novel told from the point of view of an adult looking back at his or her childhood that thoroughly captures my attention and feels so convincing. Even if I cannot relate to the circumstances or the surroundings, the emotions are so very real and bring back such sharp memories of my own inexperience and innocent yearnings.

With keen insight and skillful writing, Elena Ferrante has crafted a vivid account of two young lives struggling to rise above the usual fate of those born into such harsh conditions. The impoverishment and violence of the neighborhood are part of the daily fabric of Elena and Lila’s lives, but they dream of a life elevated above those around them. The key to achieving this dream – education. @In that last year of elementary school, wealth became our obsession. We talked about it the way characters in novels talk about searching for treasure… Then, I don’t know why, things changed and we began to link school to wealth. We thought that if we studied hard we would be able to write books and that the books would make us rich. Wealth was still the glitter of gold coins stored in countless chests, but to get there all you had to do was go to school and write a [email protected] Oh yes, there was a time when I believed diligent studying would achieve similar results! What little girl doesn’t dream of becoming rich or famous?! Both girls work hard, but it is quite evident that Lila is the dominant one in the relationship – academics come easy to her and Elena finds herself wanting to reach those same heights. She often feels inferior to Lila and it becomes her goal to keep up with her, but believing she can never surpass the brilliance of her friend.

Of course, the competition between two coming-of-age girls doesn’t just end at schoolwork. The fragility of such a relationship is further tested by the attraction they hold for the boys of the neighborhood. In this arena, Elena perhaps feels she has an advantage over Lila: @In general I was the pretty one, while she was skinny, like a salted anchovy, she gave off an odor of wildness, she had a long face, narrow at the temples, framed by two bands of smooth black [email protected] However, true to the nature of girlhood, feelings of inadequacy settle in and Elena feels second-string once again. @But Lila now had retaken the upper hand, satisfaction had magnified her beauty, while I, overwhelmed by schoolwork, exhausted by my frustrated love for Nino, was growing ugly again. My healthy color faded, the acne returned. And suddenly one morning the specter of glasses [email protected]

I couldn’t help but wish that Elena would stand up for herself, value herself as an individual separate from her attachment to Lila. Lila, the leader and Elena, the follower – certainly a familiar dynamic in a friendship. I wonder who benefits most from these friendships. Perhaps Elena needed the competition to drive her own ambition and rise above her circumstances. But Lila too needed someone to ground her, give her some sense of stability in her own life. I think perhaps such relationships are fluid – giving and receiving on both ends at different times, always changing along with the trials and tribulations each experiences. Ferrante does an exceptional job of examining the complexities of friendships and this is what I found to be the most fascinating aspect of this novel. The ending leaves one with a question and the desire to grab the second book in the series. Without a doubt, I will do exactly that. I am eager to follow not just Elena and Lila’s friendship but also to learn more about the fate of the large cast of characters – especially Nino, Stefano, Rino, Pasquale, Antonio, and even the city of Naples itself.


مشاهده لینک اصلی
Much has been written about My Brilliant Friend, so Im not sure what I can add except for a few reactions to what I see as the three main characters:

< Elena -- my heart aches for you. We all know an Elena (and some of us are Elena). The brilliant second fiddle, who is too focused and intertwined with her friend Lilas life to appreciate her own talents, successes and hopes. I want to shake Elena, and to tell her to let go of Lila -- just a bit at least -- to stop hanging on Lilas every word and emotions, and to find her own place...

< Lila -- you too are brilliant, but you are so so hard on yourself and others. And Lila too is recognizable -- although maybe not the extent of her brutality. Lila has a bit of love to dispense, but mostly she has so much anger tightly coiled inside her. I want to tell her first to breathe, and then to slow down before something terrible happens...

< Naples -- yes, Naples is its own character in this book. You are so harsh, Naples, and you should hang your head in shame for making life so harsh for Elena and Lila, for creating the space in which these strong, brilliant, love starved and flawed characters experience lives defined by poverty, deprivation, grittiness and brutality. Naples complex layers of history, religion, criminality and politics make for a sharp edged vibrancy that is both fascinating and repulsive.

And now I have to find out what happens next in volume 2...

مشاهده لینک اصلی
I just dont get the hype. I found the writing (or translation) incredibly choppy and the story overlong, repetitive and incoherent at times.

There must be better writers in Italy than Ferrante.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
From the age of two until twelve, I lived in Merthyr Tydfil, Wales. During the Industrial Revolution, Merthyr had briefly been the iron capital of the world, but things didnt work out; iron ore became harder to mine, the people running the refining works didnt adopt modern methods quickly enough, the town was too far from the sea. Everything fell apart, and by the 1930s unemployment was running at 80%. When I arrived with my parents in 1960, things had become a little better, but the town was still one of the poorest in Britain.

Why did we move there? It was the time of the counter-culture: some idealistic peace protesters had decided to found a commune - I still have no idea why they chose Merthyr - and my parents wanted to join them. The members of the commune didnt get on, the usual story, and after a couple of years they disbanded. We were stuck in Merthyr, and thats where I grew up. I attended primary school at Heolgerrig, a little village just outside town. In summer, I walked to and from school, a pleasant trip that lasted about forty minutes. In winter, my siblings and I took the bus.

There were two kinds of children at Heolgerrig. The smaller group was the contingent of middle-class kids, most of whom lived on the new estate just down the road from the school. They spoke normal English, though with a Welsh accent, and their parents had white-collar jobs. A couple of other kids also belonged to this group; the one I remember best was Avril Griffiths, the vicars daughter. Avril was a fat, priggish girl with an annoying manner, whom I hated for all of the five years we were in the same class together. Her younger brother, Wayne, was a bully, and I hated him too. But the majority of the class was quite different. They were the children of the local working class, spoke Welsh by preference, and were poor, dirty and violent.

Violence was an integral part of school life. There were fights all the time in the playground, and they werent friendly; the kids generally wanted to hurt each other. The teachers made frequent use of physical punishment when they thought things were getting out of hand, or sometimes, I thought, just because they were crazy too. There was one particularly dangerous teacher called Mr Haines. He would yell at us when we didnt understand his questions: his favorite expression was @Blocks of [email protected] I can hear him yelling it now. He liked to use his cane. The boys, even at age eight or nine, were already fond of playing sexual games. One day, the biggest gang started a game called @Kiss [email protected], which involved kidnapping girls and dragging them back to the boys lavatory. I never learned exactly what happened to them there, but when Mr Haines found out he completely lost it and thrashed all the boys who had taken part. I now realise that he only hit the poor, Welsh-speaking boys. I never got hit.

But this kind of violence was only a kind of muted background noise behind the real incidents, surprisingly many of which involved permanent disfigurement or death. One boy in the class above me managed to put an eye out using some wood-carving tools; another was killed when he was showing off by the side of the road and fell in front of a car. A particularly memorable and gruesome story started when the school decided to retire the ancient classroom furniture, units which had the seat attached to the desk with a heavy cast-iron frame, and replace them with modern tubular steel tables and plastic chairs. We didnt much like the change, but the upside was that the old desks had not been taken away. They were stacked in a shed out at the side of the yard, and they made a great climbing-frame. Unfortunately, they had not been stacked very carefully. One day a pile collapsed and killed a young child, not one I knew. A couple of weeks later, a fire started during the middle of the night and burned down half the school. It only occurred to me much later that these two events might have been linked. All of the foregoing, however, were still comparatively minor incidents. The big one happened at 9.15 am on October 21 1966 in Aberfan, a few miles down the road from us. A large slag-heap, which hadnt been properly maintained, suddenly turned into a landslide as a result of heavy rainfall. It buried the local school and killed (I just looked it up in Wikipedia) 116 children and 28 adults. My father wanted to go and help with the search and rescue effort; we started crying and made such a fuss that we managed to dissuade him.

Anyway, what I wanted to say was that I liked this novel very much. It reminded me of my childhood.

[To Le nouveau nom]

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