SOURCE: Riviello, Tonia Caterina. “From Silence to Universality in Le piccole virtù by Natalia Ginzburg.” Forum Italicum 33, no. 1 (spring 1999): 185-99.

[In the following essay, Riviello considers the major thematic concerns of the essays in Le piccole virtù.]

In Natalia Ginzburg's book Le piccole virtù it is evident that the European sociological disruptions she has witnessed during the last fifty years have crucially influenced her writing. Expressing many of the same concerns as several of her contemporaries, Ginzburg offers commentary on the changing face of society as a result of World War II. Essentially, she evokes in her personal essays the post-war disillusionment that swept Europe as survivors became emotionally paralyzed. From her retrospective account it is apparent that many moral and spiritual effects of this period have lingered up through the present day. In the view of Ginzburg the most devastating consequence is the destruction of the family unit. Seen particularly in part two of Le piccole virtù, the moral erosion of society is specifically illustrated in “Silenzio” and “I rapporti umani”.¹ Containing some of her most provocative insights into the human character², these essays enunciate many of the themes that figure repeatedly throughout her book. She addresses in various forms the following subjects: death and killing, in both physical and emotional terms; wealth, as both a hindrance and a luxury; freedom of choice; the natural, as opposed to the unnatural; religion, God, and morality; suffering; guilt; and decay. In “Silenzio,” however, all of these themes are discussed as they relate to the destructive and artificially imposed silence between adults who are afraid to exhibit and confront their feelings.

With respect to the sense of universality achieved in Le piccole virtù through the recalling of memories, one can discern a methodological influence of Proust, which the author herself has acknowledged. Her style, unlike Proust's, is direct and unadorned, free of syntactic complexities. She has stated in many interviews that she wants to go to the heart of her discourse in a direct and simple fashion. She aims at clear and honest communication, whatever the risk of emotional strain: “Nella chiarezza del parlare si poteva rintracciare un'idea di democrazia come rispetto di ogni interlocutore e come rifiuto di una politica oscura ed elitaria” (Ricordi di Natalia Ginzburg, 2). Her universal message is implicit in her sharing of experiences that have changed her life and left her psychologically wounded. Sharing of life's burdens provides her life its primary meaning. Ginzburg attempts to fulfill for herself a moral obligation to improve human relations through writing. These eleven stories—written between the years 1944 and 1960 and published as a collection in 1962—can be divided thematically into three groups.

One group, including “Inverno in Abruzzo,” “Le scarpe rotte,” “Ritratto d'un amico,” and “Il figlio dell'uomo,” examines human suffering, concerning both loved ones nearby and those who disappeared in the war. Ginzburg treats suffering and death as integral parts of man's life. These stories are concerned with memories of exile and the privations of wartime, but also with the mutability of memory itself. Another group deals with the writer and his craft. It includes “Il mio mestiere,” “Lui e io,” and “Elogio e compianto dell'Inghilterra.” In “Il mio mestiere” she reveals through numerous examples what writing has meant to her, how she discovered the art of writing, and the emotional obstacles she faced after she became a mother and lost her husband. She continues with reflections on both the rewards and sacrifices of being a writer, and finally she presents how an author can test his own work. The third group addresses the lack of communication within the human community. In the stories “Silenzio,” “I rapporti umani,” and “Le piccole virtù” she moralizes and offers advice to parents on how to minimize trauma for their children and how to raise them. Her experience has shown her that parents teach their children practical, immediate virtues, but that they should instead train them in higher virtues. Independence and enjoyment are emphasized during the learning years, rather than obedience to tradition or one's parents. Parents should not attempt to motivate their children with monetary rewards for good performance in school or for household chores. Money should not disturb their innocent and carefree spirit.

In “Inverno in Abruzzo,” the first of the collection, she discusses the nature of her family's exile during the period of Fascism. Her family was one among many dislocated by the war, and the feelings of isolation she expresses are those of an individual far from the people and things dear to him:

Quando la prima neve cominciava a cadere, una lenta tristezza s'impradroniva di noi. Era un esilio il nostro: la nostra città era lontana e lontani erano i libri, gli amici, le vicende varie e mutevoli di una vera esistenza.

(788)

The family is not lacking the essentials for survival; they have a stove, a table to study on, and space for the children to play. But they miss their books, their friends, and the experiences they shared together, which are the focus of “Una vera esistenza.” While they are in Abruzzo there is a compounding of longing for the past, together with a hope for future peace. Only much later, when their stay in Abruzzo is over and her husband has died in a prison in Rome, does she realize that their exile had been the most serene years of her family life. In Abruzzo, they had openly shared their hopes and dreams for a better future. They had earnestly relived memories of the past. Exile becomes at this point a lost paradise for the Ginzburg family.

An aspect central to this and other stories in the collection is communication. In the rural town of Abruzzo, human relations are resilient. There is a continuous exchange among people, which is absent in the cities described in “I rapporti umai” and “Silenzio.” Here people relate to others with joy and selflessness. In her depiction of “la sortoretta” the reader senses it is Natalia herself writing, fully absorbed in her own “mestiere” (789). She and “la sartoretta” put body and soul into their work:

La nostra casa era sempre piena di gente, chi veniva a chieder favori e chi veniva a offrirne. A volte la sartoretta veniva a farci le sagnoccole. Si cingeva uno strofinaccio alla vita e sbatteva le uova, e mandava Crocetta in giro per il paese a cercare chi potesse prestarci un paiolo ben grande. Il suo viso rosso era assorto e i suoi ochi splendevano di una volontà imperiosa. Avrebbe messo a fuoco la casa perche' le sue sagnoccole riuscissero bene. Il suo vestito e i capelli si facevano bianchi di farina.

(789)

Nonetheless, she continues, these people can also have strong feelings of hatred, as do the figures in the children's “fiaba” told by the “bambinaia”:

C'era una volta un bambino che gli morì la madre. Suo padre si pigliò un'altra moglie e la matrigna non amava il bambino. Perciò lo uccise mentre il padre era ai campi e ci fece il bollito. Il padre torna a casa e mangia, ma dopo che ha mangiato le ossa rimaste nel piatto si mettono a cantare.

“E la mia trista matrea
Mi ci ha cotto in caldarea
E lo mio padre ghiottò
Mi ci ha fatto “nu bravo boccò.”

Allora il padre uccide la moglie con la falce, e l'appende a un chiodo davanti alla porta.

(790)

Ginzburg is able to fuse together reality and legend and thus to lend her story an aura of universality. She gives the reader an opportunity to wonder, to go from the particular to the universal, because, in her view, the individual requires both to lead a balanced life. She and her family found solace on long walks on the snow in the outskirts of the town. She told the children that the city of Rome is much larger than Abruzzo and is filled with monuments, historical sites, and elegant stores. Still, their naïve answer was: “Ma anche qui c'è Girò” (791). Ginzburg later concedes that she disturbed their innocent happiness by continually referring to better places and times—an easy mistake to make, she feels, in such a desperate situation. With the end of winter, mail deliveries became more frequent and people could circulate with less fear. Hope for freedom grew stronger, but their dreams remained unfulfilled. Ginzburg observes that history obeys its own “ancient” laws, which do not cater to human desire. The only things man can be assured of are his dreams and the fleeting joys of anticipating their fulfillment. As in Leopardi, the true “festa” is the “vigilia” (792), the waiting and hoping. The “laws” of destiny are in charge of man's life and may well hold in store the opposite of what he has envisioned:

C'è una certa monotona uniformità nei destini degli unomi. Le nostre esistenze si svolgono secondo leggi antiche ed immutabili, secondo una loro cadenza uniforme ed antica. I sogni non si avverano mai e non appena li vediamo spezzati, comprendiamo a un tratto che le gioie maggiori della nostra vita sono fuori della realtà. Non appena li verdiamo spezzati, ci struggiamo di nostaglia per il tempo che fervevano in noi. La nostra sorte trascorre in questa vicenda di speranze e di nostalgie.

(792)

Another story of gradual revelation is “Elogio e compianto dell'Inghilterra,” which begins with a comparison of negative and positive aspects of England. Ginzburg writes of English life, of its climate, and its effect on people and their moods. Their attitudes are characteristically stern and formal, somewhat slow to change, but also like the English meadows, remaining alive and green year round. She moves from the particularities of the landscape to the universal qualities of artistic expression. The cathedrals in England are complementary to nature, majestic, the focal point of the ample spaces surrounding them. In the vicinity of these cathedrals mens' souls can reach the realm of “truth and beauty.” In the presence of such a perfect fusion of art and nature the individual can reinvigorate his spirit.

This story resembles a symphony of disparate themes, distinct but leading to a single objective, the opportunity for man to break away from the limits of everyday reality, which too often dull his sensibilities. Among many particulars, Ginzburg observes that in careers such as salesperson and restaurant waiter an individual can too easily stop using his mind to its full capacity. In essence, the author wants to suggest, as in “Il mio mestiere,” that creativity and art can help man recapture his memories and humanity. In the final analogy, Ginzburg uses English life as a picture of routine, but one that fades upon closer inspection and is replaced by an image of the English cathedral and its perennially green meadows. The inspiration derived from the attempt to achieve perfect balance between the work of man and nature prevails over the potentially numbing routine of life.

“Ritratto d'un amico” involves Ginzburg and a friend whom she never mentions by name but who becomes alive through Ginzburg's delicate portrait. The city in which they grew up together and which she associates with her friend is also never mentioned by name. Of greatest thematic importance is the sense of belonging and historical continuity, evident in the first sentence: “La città che era cara al nostro amico è sempre la stessa: c'è qualche combiamento, ma cose da poco” (797). From the very start the microcosmic and macrocosmic perspectives are fused together. She notes that in a city the presence or absence of one individual may not change the course of history. But she evokes the precariousness or miracle of a human life by “era cara al nostro amico” and the continuity of history by “è sempre la stessa” (797). By not mentioning this particular friend and this particular city she gives a universal sense to her story. The friend represents mankind and the city represents the world, its history and our memories of it. The dichotomy between the fragility of human life and the scope of history is brought forward when she relates her conflicting feelings upon returning to the city after a long absence. Her initial sense of joy at being home again—with its memories of youth and friendship—are succeeded by feelings of estrangement, by the realization that the people who were essential to her ethical and intellectual formation are no longer there:

A casa nostra, non abbiamo più ragione di stare; perchè qui a casa nella nostra città, nella città dove abbiamo trascorso la giovinezza, ci rimangono ormai poche cose viventi, e siamo accolti da una folla di memorie e di ombre.

(797)

Only after she accepts that neither she nor the people of her youth belong to the city does she have the courage to examine its negative aspects:

La nostra città, del resto, è malinconica per sua natura. Nelle mattine d'inverno, ha un suo particolare odore di stazione e fuliggine, diffuso in tutte le strade e in tutti i viali; arrivando al mattino, la troviamo grigia di nebbia, e ravviluppata in quel suo odore.

(797)

Again we can see that the communion between the people of her youth and the city has been broken, as suggested by the phrases “la nostra città” and “la sua natura” (797). The city lives its own life, independent of the people who inhabit it. The city can perhaps be identified with destiny and fate, especially if we recall “Inverno in Abruzzo,” where destiny has its own laws independent of man's wishes.

At one point, near midnight, the city appears to be frozen in time. It has visibly suffered from war, from the lack of people to maintain its communal spirit and vitality. The city brings to mind the state of affairs in postwar Europe and the void that has been left in the survivors. One sign of life is that on the roads the snow has been plowed into small hills. Later, the morning sun colors the mist a rosy hue, which suggests to the author that for a lucky few people life has been unchanged by war. The public gardens, however, are deserted, buried under “una fitta coltre intatta e soffice” (797-8). No children are playing on the snow; no one has sat on the “panchine abbandonate” (798). And with the word “sepolti” the gardens for a moment evoke the victims of war, who are “sepolti” in distant fields (798). The author seems to wish “sotto una coltre intatta e soffice,” where at least nature can protect them. The gardens of the city become by extension cemeteries. This sense of desolation lasts only a few lines, and Ginzburg moves on to view the hills of the city and their majestic aura that her friend loved. He loved the city because he was of the same melancholic temperament, and thus was driven to accomplish numerous tasks on any given day:

Il nostro amico viveva nella città come un adolescente: e fino all'ultimo visse così. Le sue giornate erano, come quelle degli adoloscenti, lunghissime, e piene di tempo: sapeva trovare spazio per studiare e per scrivere, per quadagnarsi la vita e per oziare sulle strade che amava: e noi che annaspavamo combattuti fra pigrizia e operosità … Consumava I suoi pasti velocissimo, mangiava poco e non dormiva mai.

(799)

Ginzburg's examination of both positive and negative aspects of the city reflects the complexity of its meaning to her and others. She tries to understand her friend's unfortunate death as the result of his complex psychological nature:

Non ebbe mai una moglie, né figli, né una casa sua … pensava anche lui di farsi una famiglia, ma ci pensava in un modo che si faceva, con gli anni, sempre più complicato e tortuoso … Si era creato, con gli anni, un sistema di pensiero e di principi così aggrovigliato e inesorabile, da vietargli l'attuazione della realtà più semplice … tanto più profondo in lui diventava il desiderio di conquistarla … Le assurde e tortuose compicazioni di pensiero, nelle quali imprigionava la sua semplice anima; e avremmo anche noi voluto insegnargli qualcosa, insegnargli a vivere in un modo più elementare e respirabile … Gli restava dunque, da conquistare, la realtà quotidiana; ma questa era proibita e imprendibile per lui che ne aveva, insieme, sete e ribrezzo; e così non poteva che guardarla come da sconfinate lontananze.

(801-803)

In referring to his death, she uses the phrase “è morto d'estate” to emphasize that he died when others were out of the city on vacation, that his death was not noticed even by his close friends, but that he died in the city where he belonged. The story ends with his friends returning during his favorite season, autumn. Ginzburg suggests that there is a sympathetic connection between his love of autumn and his tragic end. The poem at the very end captures the memories the author and his other friends will have of him forever, as well as the spirit of his literary works. The image of the sea combines the agitated state of his soul with the universal value of intellectual and artistic expression.

More intimate family relations are examined in “Silenzio,” especially as they relate to the startling and unprecedented lapses of personal interaction in the modern world.³ Ginzburg presents an artificial exchange between fictional characters, but suggests that her description is representative of real exchanges:

“Hai freddo?” “No, non ho freddo”. “Vuoi un po' di tè?” “Grazie, no”. “Sei stanco?” “Non so. Sì, forse sono un po' stanco”. I nostri personaggi parlano cosi. Parlano cosi per ingannare il silenzio. Parlano cosi perchè non sanno più come parlare.

(855)

The dialogue concerns the most mundane subjects, without substance, disclosure, elation or resolve. According to Ginzburg, modern man builds a silence around himself that protects him by reducing conversation and interaction to undifferentiated triviality.⁴ Ginzburg continues to explain that the silence begins when we are children, listening to our parents talk at the dinner table. Introduced near the beginning, the family table is the main image in the essay from which all other themes derive. At first, a child's silence stems from an inability to understand his parents, but then it becomes his principal means of coping with them. From this, Ginzburg contends that children cling to their privacy, though it pains them to do so, because they realize early on that their self-imposed detachment is unwarranted and a ploy. Usually, this response manifests itself in the uncomfortable situation they have created with their parents when relations are strained and even contentious.

As children continue to grow up in a dysfunctional, uncommunicative environment, they harbor one of the most fundamental human desires: the secret hope that somewhere they will find another person with whom they can communicate. Essentially, Ginzburg asserts that from early childhood, man spends a large part of his life trying to find someone he can relate to, even non-verbally, and identify with. Often this person is a mate—though not necessarily. Yet, Ginzburg tells us that the anxiety and insecurity a deprived individual confronts as he searches for his “mate,” coupled with his ever-growing silence, can lead him to recognize his unique talents and to pursue his aspirations. Thus Ginzburg contends that silence can be illuminating, though too often silence is sought out as a retreat from interaction, rather than as an avenue to self-awareness.

Persistent silence in an adult, however, can lead to vagueness of thinking and to incoherence. For some, the activation of their talents and removal of their adult silence can only be achieved through an external mental probing, such as psychoanalysis. Ginzburg claims to have been encouraged by psychoanalysis to live according to nature and to exercise free choice (857); but she has had to struggle with the ambiguity of this injunction. She argues that in our modern society one cannot choose to live “according to nature,” for society is undeniably a controlled environment with elements both good and ill. It is unnatural for us to rebuke the advances of science, medicine, and culture and to retreat to a false “natural” state. The primary choice for modern man is between good and evil within society. The ambiguity of this choice promotes a futile search for a non-existent natural world and contributes to moral decay. Those who cannot grasp these issues fail to uphold their moral responsibilities and abandon themselves to a false conception of natural behavior. The Fascists and Nazis are extreme factions who convinced themselves that the rule of the strong over the weak is natural and is in some sense their destiny. But this choice raises brutality above intellectual and moral integrity and teaches generation after generation to prepare a similar revolt against existing authority, whatever its merits.

Ironically, then, Ginzburg explains that freedom of choice as we presently try to exercise it is stifling. If we had free reign to do as we pleased, society would undoubtedly be severely impaired. Adults need the structure civilized society imposes—regardless of their culture—or chaos will prevail. The fact that World War II eliminated society's entrusted structure demonstrates the consequences of both silence and freedom of choice in this respect. Silence caused the war, and in its aftermath survivors find difficulty in coping with the freedom of choice left to them. Not only have they lost the art of conversation, but the lack of communication has made them sacrifice normal human relationships inside and outside of the family (858). For Ginzburg this sacrifice is a sin; moreover, she implies that it is the pivotal sin of common man, because from it stem the other sins that erode society.

Following her analysis of the fall of humanity in “Silenzio,” Ginzburg takes a closer, more intimate look at humanity's fall from innocence in her essay “I rapporti umani.” Less introspective in its viewpoint, “I rapporti umani” is reflective and universal, revealing the stages of personal growth in the individual. Ginzburg enumerates the stages of human development, offering her perceptions as if she were living through each one as she writes about it. The emphasis on the present enlivens her commentary, making the journey from childhood to adulthood immediate and accessible. Initially, Ginzburg pursues what author Jerome Green refers to as the “window idea.” In essence, this is a helpful analogy in explaining how children and adults see the world differently. In a child's mind, the window of the world is very small, and in order to appreciate change in his life he must be able to perceive change within his narrow scope. By contrast, an adult's window is larger, indeed consciously expandable, and in order for there to be satisfying progress in his life he needs only to see changes through the window in the distance and less frequently. Ginzburg illustrates the frustration and bewilderment of the child's condition:

Nell'infanzia, abbiamo soprattutto gli occhi fissi al mondo degli adulti, buio e misterioso per noi. Esso ci sembra assurdo, perchè non capiamo nulla delle parole che gli adulti si scambiano fra loro, né il senso delle loro decisioni e azioni, né le cause dei loro mutamenti d'umore, delle loro collere improvvise. Le parole che si scambiano gli adulti fra loro non le capiamo e non ci interessano, anzi ci annoiano infinitamente.

(861)

After these opening observations, she traces how childish attitudes mature into adult attitudes, how when we are adult we are astonished at our condition, our lack of self-confidence, our lack of control over the environment (880). According to Ginzburg this change can partly be attributed to the loss of pride people suffer as they grow older and to their continual desire to be accepted in society, especially by a significant other person. Ginzburg recalls how at an early age people particularly seek popularity among their peers. She notes that in dress, habits, and most importantly, the choice of friends, people try to break out of their innate sense of shyness and develop their own personality.

Ginzburg also refers to the self-imposed silence that young people develop from social interaction. “Who are others and who are we?” (864) become central questions that we evaluate and reevaluate as we hope to solidify our identities. However, the confusion people experience as they try to sort out the answers to these questions causes them to feel isolated. Ginzburg likens this feeling to being alone in the mist (864), for one's soul-searching can be so intense that the individual retreats from the world and its confusing images (864). Furthermore, thoughts on these matters can become so private and nearly inexpressible that one may withdraw beneath a functional layer of silence where intimacy and compassion is shunned. One way Ginzburg believes that this layer of silence can be avoided is by continual and sympathetic association with others. Devoting considerable time to this subject, Ginzburg dwells on perhaps the most engrained and fundamental fear shared by the mass of mankind—the uncertainty as to whether one day someone of the opposite sex will be able to love us (864). Her discussion of this “common” aspiration borders on the comical. Still, she succeeds in preserving from triteness the beauty of love and the desire to share oneself in an unimpaired fashion with a soul mate. She warns that this desire will be accompanied by suffering, for suffering, in her view, is an inescapable part of life.

Ginzburg also suggests that the layer of silence can be overcome through education, by the conviction that, regardless of station in life, one participates in the common plight of humanity. As Ginzburg ponders this subject, she relates the sudden and startling illumination of otherwise educated, middle or upper class adults:

D'improvviso ci siamo detti che i poveri sono il prossimo, i poveri sono il prossimo che bisogna amare. Vigiliamo il passaggio dei poveri intorno a noi: spiamo l'occasione d'accompagnare un mendicante cieco che deve attraversare la strada, di offrire il nostro braccio a qualche vecchia scivolata in una pozzanghera.

(873)

Through several vivid passages, Ginzburg confirms that we all have the same feelings, the same fears, and the same joys. Simply, our expressions of those things manifest themselves differently. We need to learn continually how to value the diversity within our communities. By doing so, we can empower ourselves to offer others the dignity and compassion they rightfully deserve as human beings.⁵

This leads to Ginzburg's readiness to accept all fates for children and not to insist on a level of intellectual excellence or achievement. Patience enters here as one of Ginzburg's cardinal virtues. To the charge that silence would reduce a relationship to very little, Ginzburg argues that a parent's values concerning religious, emotional, and social life should be offered in summary form, with their imperfections, to the child's view. Thus the child is encouraged to use the parent as a springboard for his own spiritual leap beyond the parent's reach. Ginzburg urges parents not to be afraid to represent themselves truthfully, as limited and blemished. The child will better accommodate his own limitations and also not be fearful of deviating from the parent's model and perfecting his own natural abilities. She insists that the parent's expectations must encompass the highest as well as the most ordinary of fates. Truthfulness and fidelity to one's own nature are cardinal virtues for Ginzburg, and many of her stories celebrate the authenticity and purity of purpose still present in corrupted or weakened souls.⁶

Ginzburg offers “vocation” as an earthly analogue of Christian deliverance.⁷ She asserts that a human being's vocation is the highest expression of his love of life.⁸ And so it is especially important for a parent not to impel a child toward a predetermined station of “success” in life, which Ginzburg considers a little virtue. Ginzburg uses animal imagery to depict the awakening of a vocation, or mission, in a young life. A child may appear slow or dull; his behavior may resemble that of a mole or a lizard, waiting motionless for its prey to appear. The child may seem to be dead in a spiritual sense until it suddenly springs forward on its own initiative and in a direction which is unforeseen. A point of faith for Ginzburg is that a child's soul is always in a state of expectancy though it may seem lost or dormant.⁹ Such advocacy of unguided self-determination is a modern humanist conception and reflects Ginzburg's faith that a child's soul should reveal its own destiny rather than come to accept a mission prepared for it by gospel or past generations.¹⁰

In her opinion, the great virtues well up from instinct, a silent and nonrational region of the soul. And love of life is the greatest virtue. This motivates the child to love good and to hate evil, even though good is not always rewarded and evil is often not punished in this world, a fact which she places beyond logical explanation. Ginzburg thus relies critically on initial principles of early development rather than on corrective instruction or spiritual guidance from a parent or sage. She concedes no authority to the adult, and earnestly argues that the adult is too bound by his own faults and flaws, too conscious of his own incoherence and insecurity, to render an untainted prescription for another's life.

Notes

1. Picchione writes: “La Ginzburg esplicita attentamente le costanti e prospettive del suo mondo letterario, collegando un resoconto autobiografico delle proprie esperienze di scrittrice a teorizzazioni sul fatto artistico in generale e sui complessi rapporti che ne agevolano o impacciano la formazione.” (7).

2. Clementelli comments: “L'attenta capacità di osservazione relativa a cose e persone che da sempre ha costituito la qualità primaria dell'arte narrativa della Ginzburg.” (84).

3. Ginzburg's philosophy that originates in Le piccole virtù is an anticipation of what Ginzburg later advocated as an active member of the Italian parliament trying to change society at large. She advises parents how to educate children who will be future citizens. By the time she became a member of parliament, she felt that action could no longer be delayed: “Una politica che le pareva avara nella difesa dei più deboli, a certe sue vibranti partecipazioni alle grandi tragedie dell'umanità, alle sue profonde aspirazioni a una Terra più libera e più giusta” (15).

4. Clementelli writes: “‘Silenzio’ si risolve in un conciso e drammatico trattato sull'angoscia tipica del nostro tempo, di alienazione ha, ad un certo momento, indicato.” (86).

5. Picchione writes: “E l'atto dello scrivere sorge non come risultato di un annullamento razionale dei suddetti ostacoli, ma come caparbio scavalcamento dei medesimi.” (8).

6. Clementelli writes: “È un lungo cammino verso quel mometo in cui misercordia ed amore hanno unico nome, quello di libertà: è la stessa lenta, faticosa salita, in sede morale, che la Ginzburg ha compiuto, in sede letteraria, con il totale recupero della memoria, con la lucida scoperta di un entroterra sprituale, non gelido e privato, ma comune agli altri, in cui gli altri ci ritornano o ci divengono “famigliari” attraverso la scoperta di un tenace legame con noi stessi, la perfetta aderenza con noi stessi, in quanto prossimo, cioè parte vitale di noi.” (88).

7. Picchione writes: “In un connubio di ignoranza-saggezza ricorrente nella produzione ginburghiana, questo schema di reiterati dubbi si abbina a decise interpretazioni o raccomandazioni relative all'attività narrativa o più generalamente poetica, perentorie nella loro precisa assiomaticità e depositarie di verità non messe in discussione” (12).

8. After the trials of the modern period, it may not be surprising that Ginzburg's modern humanistic program shares much with St. Peter's letters in the New Testament which recommend to the fledgling Christian community strength during times of adversity, patience with oppressors, and compassion for those consumed by iniquity. St. Peter warns us against those who lead astray an initiate into Christian faith and responds sternly to their iniquity. He does not preclude redemption, but he clearly acknowledges that some souls are silent, unable to hear the message of the gospel, and are better left in their quiescent, animal state: “They promise them freedom, but are themselves slaves of corruption; for people are the slaves of whatever has mastered them. If they escaped the world's defilements through coming to know our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and entangle themselves in them again, and were mastered by them, their last state would be worse than the first. Better for them never to have God's discernment between the corrupter and the corrupted” (2 Peter, 2:19-20). Both have faith that the inevitable corruption of the human soul does not entail ultimate damnation. Neither Peter nor Ginzburg advocates denunciation as a method for persuasion. Both advocate perseverance and courtesy, as well as strength to respond when challenged: “Who is going to do you harm if you are devoted to what is good? Yet if you should suffer for doing right you may count yourselves happy. Have no fear of other people … Always be ready to make your defence when anyone challenges you to justify the hope which is in you. But do so with courtesy and respect, keeping your conscience clear, that when you are abused, those who malign you may be put to shame” (1 Peter 3:13).

   Ginzburg emphasizes that the parent and child relationship should be a living exchange or dialogue, but non-intrusive. It should contain extended passages of silence, in which intimacy is not lost because of the parent's reassuring presence. This recalls St. Peter's advice to wives on the virtue of patience and the appreciation of their husband's frailties: “You women must submit to your husbands, so that if there are any of them who disbelieve the gospel they may be won over without a word being said, by observing your chaste and respectful behavior” (1 Peter 3:1).

9. Picchione observes: “Le direttive basilari cui la Ginzburg fa aderire la sua produzione letteraria non la portano però a far coincidere esclusivisticamente l'arte con il perseguimento di un “comprehensible” realismo del quotidiano, scevro di fitte implicazione simboliche, ordinatamente mimetico e refrattario a sovvertimenti dell'ordine espressivo” (10).

10. Bullock explores the hazards of parenting and a primary cause of poor parent-child relations: “The greatest threat to such a development is the absence of a corresponding interest among the older generation, whose lack of creative drive frequently leads to an obsessive rapport with their offspring in which the young person's aims and hopes are ignored or actively opposed in favour of alternatives which appear more useful or more attractive to parents who have not realised their own ambitions” (97).

Works Cited

Bullock, Alan. Natalia Ginzburg. (NewYork/Oxford: Berg, St. Martin's Press, 1991).

Clementelli, Elena. Invito alla lettura di Natalia Ginzburg. Milano: U. Mursia & C., 1972.

Ginzburg, Natalia. Opere. Volume primo. (Milano: Arnoldo Mondadori, I edizione I Meridiani febbraio 1986).

Picchione, Luciana Marchionne. Natalia Ginzburg. Firenze: La Nuova Italia. 137 Il Castoro, 1978.

The Revised English Bible, with the Apocrypha, Oxford UP and Cambridge UP, 1989.

Violante, Luciano, Maura Camoirano, Laura Balbo, Ettore Masina, Anna Serafini, and Nilde Iotti. Ricordi di Natalia Ginzburg. (Roma: Camera dei deputati, 1997).