Years ago a friend gave me a book called How Proust Can Change Your Life by Alain de Bottom, a self-help book of sorts spun out of lessons learned from reading Proust. I read it and liked it, though truthfully, I’ve yet to read Proust. I haven’t broken a leg or had a debilitating illness, and according to Proust’s brother, quoted in de Bottom’s book: “The sad thing is that people have to be very ill or have a broken leg in order to have the opportunity to read In Search of Lost Time.”
At the moment, I’m reading Elena Ferrante’s four-book Neapolitan series, which, though not the same as committing to Proust, involves a pretty serious dedication of time. I picked up the first novel in the series, My Brilliant Friend, after Andrea Dupree recommended the books, calling them her “addiction.”
The series follows the friendship of two girls growing up in Naples, Italy, from their childhood in the 1950s through their adult years. That’s putting it simply; a lot happens. But it’s not the typical stuff I think of when I think series. The books are driven by character rather than plot, and while I was immediately drawn into Ferrante’s world, it was a while before I conceded addiction.
Now I’m nearly through the third book and feeling a little shaky about only having one left. Because I’m reading them, I realized, not just for entertainment but also for life lessons. I read the first book in the final weeks of summer. By then I was done in from two months of trying to keep up with my seven year old, so I let him run free. Later, when I learned that he and some of the neighborhood kids had furtively taken sodas from a garage refrigerator then sneaked away from the cul-de-sac to explode them along the bike trail, I thought of Ferrante’s elementary school girls wandering unsupervised through the streets of Naples, deciding to cut school and walk to the beach. Thinking of them, up to worse no-good than my son, comforted me. But more than that, Ferrante’s characters taught me something I needed to know right then about kids’ determination to test boundaries and create worlds that adults have only a minor say in.
Mostly, Ferrante’s books have nothing to do with my own life. A large chunk of the story takes place in the decades before I was born, in another country. Yet I’m finding that time and borders collapse as I read, and the narrator’s latest concerns—how to navigate motherhood, marriage, and writing—are my own. Or at least, they’re similar to my own, and I keep putting aside the tasks of my day-to-day life to follow her through her days. Silly, maybe, yet I keep reading; I can’t stop.
I think we read for different reasons at different points in our lives, and while we may not be bedridden with an overt illness or injury, we turn to books to pull us through. I once binge-read John Irving on a cross-country train trip, and now, whenever I glimpse an Amtrak, I feel the atmosphere of Irving’s New Hampshire. I don’t recall what I learned from reading his novels or why they were the right books at that particular time, but I’m sure they were, just as Ferrante’s books are right for me now but might have bored me on a train in my twenties.
I’ve got one more in the Ferrante series to go, and I’m sure I’ll extrapolate mini-lessons as I read. Then I’ll move on to something else. I’m not sure what book it will be yet, but I hope, whatever it is, it will be just what I need.
This post is part of our annual Lit Matters series, in which writers and readers express why supporting and elevating literary arts—the mission of Lighthouse Writers Workshop— is important to them. If you agree, consider supporting Lighthouse on Colorado Gives Day. Mark your calendar for December 8 or schedule your gift now. Thank you!
Jennifer Itell’s fiction and creative nonfiction have appeared in a variety of publications, including The Normal School, Literary Mama, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, 5280, Story Quarterly and Redbook magazine. She teaches at Lighthouse Writers Workshop and the University of Denver.
