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sirfrankiecrisp 's review for:
The Days of Abandonment
by Elena Ferrante
Ferrante, oh Ferrante, in all of its despair, agony - a book of cosmic gravity, a woman's downpour of light. A truly gothic tale, a poetry of excess; a woman unravelling, wilting, withering to domestic atrophy. It is an exhalation, an otherworldly lament; the great storm conjured in abandonment, in its wake, a woman stripped bare, naked, comforted in obsenity, on the precipice ready to fall into oblivion, into Anna's words: "Where am I? What am I doing? Why?". Blinded by the incoming light of the train, a woman destroyed - saved by the timely prick of a lost daughter. In its end, a strangeness, a calmness, rebirthed; red berries in the mountain ash, a clarity in the dawn of past, pathetic suffering.
Now a more sober and sensible attempt. It is easy to choke on Ferrante's words, a consumate modern great. This is a masterful depiction of motherhood and marraige and the inferno it leaves in dark abandon. In its superfluous misery, betwixt reality and unreality, there is the hum of life; the hissing of the broken telephone; the green of parsley on tomato, floating in stagnant dishwater; the bickerings of suburbia, the dog, the children, the mother. This representation of everyday life magnifies Olga's suffering, a shared suffering - that shared lived experience unique to women.
Now a more sober and sensible attempt. It is easy to choke on Ferrante's words, a consumate modern great. This is a masterful depiction of motherhood and marraige and the inferno it leaves in dark abandon. In its superfluous misery, betwixt reality and unreality, there is the hum of life; the hissing of the broken telephone; the green of parsley on tomato, floating in stagnant dishwater; the bickerings of suburbia, the dog, the children, the mother. This representation of everyday life magnifies Olga's suffering, a shared suffering - that shared lived experience unique to women.