My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I admit that this book was not even on my radar before it was deemed the best book of the 21st century (so far) by the New York Times. And while it is probably a character flaw, I have a weak spot for such lists. Soon enough My Brilliant Friend (as well as its sequels) was purchased, and just had to wait for the right moment.
The moment has come, and I can see what the distinguished newspaper saw in this novel. To start with, it is an extremely competent piece of writing—the pseudonymous author, whoever she (or he?) is, clearly a professional. Every element of the book is expertly done. The characters are individualized, the dialogue flows naturally, the novel maintains its momentum. The setting—the poorer neighborhoods of Naples—is fully evoked, despite never being the main focus. In sum, the book is put together with the consummate skill of a fine film, as if a whole team of experts had worked on it.
And yet, despite this, the book has a distinctive personality. It took me some time to put my finger on what that was. Partly, it is due to the book having such a strong first-person voice, so deeply introspective, while telling a story focused on another character: Lila. This gives the book two strong gravitational centers, which constantly pull the reader in separate directions. We are never allowed to see Lila as others may see her; while Lenu, our narrator, is incapable of seeing herself except through comparison to her brilliant friend.
In this way—yet through very different means—the author achieves something similar to what Cervantes did, in which the two principal characters are only fully alive, only fully themselves, in each other’s presence. But while Don Quixote and Sancho Panza draw one another out through conversation, Lila and Lenu’s relationship is far more inward—as if each one can only define herself in relationship with the other. This isn’t as fanciful as it sounds. Just as two siblings may divide up tastes between themselves—one who likes chocolate, the other vanilla—the two girls, though more profoundly, contest and dispute aspects of their own personalities.
Another striking quality of this book is the motivation of its characters. In one way or another, the vast majority of novels concern love. But while the sublime and sultry aspects of love are always present in My Brilliant Friend, the strongest motivation we see (in the narrator at least) is intellectual envy. So much of the book consists in her attempt to achieve what she sees as the effortless brilliance of Lila—whether in math, languages, or writing. And as someone who has experienced his fair share of intellectual envy, I thought the author’s exploration of this nefarious emotion (never satisfied, never secure) was quite penetrating.
In short, while remaining very accessible, the book is written from a place of striking intellectual ambition. Indeed, in many ways I was reminded very strongly of the first volume of Simone de Beauvoir’s memoirs, especially her descriptions of her intense childhood friendship with “Zaza” (Elisabeth Lacoin). I would not be surprised to find out that this famous friendship was, in part, an inspiration for this novel.
As I put down the book, I find myself reflecting on the curious way that some relationships, formed so early in life, can be felt so intensely—a mixture of admiration, jealousy, repugnance, and love—and can resonate throughout the rest of our lives, and indeed profoundly alter their courses. If this book has a message, then, it is that our identities, even in their most intimate manifestations, are formed in conjunction and opposition with other people—that becoming oneself is not simply a matter of looking inward, but of negotiating between your innermost parts and the world around you.
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