My Brilliant Friend Archives - Elena FerranteIn , HBO began a series based on a set of books whose legion of fans had exacting expectations. The first season, which begins Sunday, is set largely in a single cluster of apartments. Its drama, though punctuated by violence, is interior and inwardly focused. It enfolds warring families and shifting alliances, but in a setting where everyone is packed close and prying eyes and whispers are inescapable. It is a game of courtyards, stairwells and balconies. For readers of the books, it is probably enough to know that the first season, which corresponds to the first of the four novels, sticks close to the source material. They form an ardent bond their first year of school, in a dusty, low-rise neighborhood on the outskirts of Naples.
My Brilliant Friend - Book Review
Publication Date: September 25, Book one in the series follows Lila and Elena from their first fateful meeting as ten-year-olds through their school years and adolescence. Through the lives of these two women, Ferrante tells the story of a neighborhood, a city, and a country as it is transformed in ways that, in turn, also transform the relationship between her protagonists.
‘My Brilliant Friend,’ by Elena Ferrante, and More
By Elena Ferrante. By the end of this astute novel, which has been translated into lucid English by Ann Goldstein, these environmental differences have just begun to manifest themselves, setting up the next installment of a planned trilogy. Yet these are less psychologically coherent and less emotionally realistic, adding to the impression that Levy has a fairly narrow range. The crucial trick with such multivoiced narratives is to make each one sound different, which Wetherell pulls off. The other trick is to make each character equally interesting, and in this he falls somewhat short. Safta and another nurse use Augustin as a kind of safe deposit box for their depressing memories of the war and its aftermath, unburdening themselves to a man incapable of gossip.
On Bitchmedia. The summer before my senior year of high school, I spent three weeks at a French immersion sleepaway camp. While enrolled, we were contractually bound to speak and read only French, and we consumed exclusively French media. Only one leniency forestalled total cultural isolation: We were permitted to write and receive letters in English. In the meantime, I dutifully wrote to her each day, my first letter swelling into a lengthy diaristic account of my Francophile experiences. Yet she never wrote to me once over those three weeks, and so I never sent her that roving, tome-like epistle. I suspect that I reread it later in the summer and, in a fit of embarrassment, threw it away.