Tag Archives: Books

Elena Ferrante on Brexit

chickensElena Ferrante, best-selling Italian author who has (just) managed to hang onto her anonymity, eschewing all interviews and never being seen dead on social media, has spoken out about Brexit.

Really?

No.

I am making mad connections between entirely unconnected things because it suits my argument.

I’m upset about Brexit. I could fill a post with all the reasons why I’m upset about Brexit, from the most self-centred and practical (loss of right to live and work in 27 countries in which trains and houses are actually affordable and the sun actually shines) to the most outward-looking and existential (the rise and rise of the far-right and what this means for world peace). But I’m not going to talk about Brexit. Not while we’ve all still got a hangover. I’m going to talk about stories.

Because I have finally reached a conclusion: Leave won not because voters were stupid, misguided, hoodwinked, or vicious (some probably were, but most probably weren’t). Leave won because the perpetrators of Leave told the most coherent story, and in times of unfathomable complexity, such as now, a coherent story is like a pork pie on the side of a freezing mountain. You know its wrong, but you’ll eat it anyway.

The connection between Brexit and Elena Ferrante, apart from the fact that Elena Ferrante distracted me from the mad ravings of Trump for the whole of December with her utterly fabulous Neapolitan quartet, is that right at the end of the last book ‘The Story of the Lost Child’ she has one of her characters explain something about bad fiction, which reminded me of Nigel Farage:

‘Only in bad novels people always think the right thing, always say the right thing, every effect has its cause, there are likeable ones and the unlikable, the good and the bad, everything in the end consoles you.’

The problem with Nigel Farage, apart from all the other problems with Nigel Farage, is that his consoling stories are made of pork pies. Truth doesn’t come in slogans. Truth is nuanced and subtle, quiet and contradictory, a fine balance of probabilities, a line drawn in snow, an instinct for kindness, a desire for justice. Truth, dammit, is always collapsing into awkward puddles of conflicting points of view, both of which are equally valid. Truth is too complex to be represented on the side of a bus. Truth surfaces in strange places. Truth has even been spotted on Donald Trump’s Twitter feed, although not very often.

Which brings me to my final point. I have been struggling for a long time to explain to myself why I hate promoting myself on social media. Someone told me it was because I was lazy. I am lazy, so that had the ring of truth, but it wasn’t the truth. The truth, as ever, was more complicated. Social media relies on a two dimensional world of constructed selves, with all the difficult bits left out. Novels, on the other hand, or books of any kind, are only as good as they have managed to scrape away the constructs to reveal the messy and often embarrassing and yet deeply human and therefore unifying truth underneath. There’s a deep conflict between the goals of good writing and the goals of social media.

Therefore I have decided that 2017 will be the year of rejecting coherent narratives, listening instead of ranting (ranting is so Nigel Farage), resisting the temptation to construct a cooler, slicker and more successful version of myself on social media, and instead engaging with the yin-yang complexity of existence whilst eating chocolate-covered coffee beans, although not last thing at night.

I like dark chocolate, are you with me or against me?

Except that sometimes I like milk chocolate and sometimes I even like white chocolate. Sometimes I don’t even like coffee.

Who the fuck am I?

I am both.

Two fingers to Nigel Farage and his bad novels made of pork pies. I am British and European and Welsh and a citizen of the World and totally sure and totally confused and happy and sad and lazy and mad and sane and educated and underemployed and worn-out with working and indebted and human and real and ordinary. 

Just like you.

Just like the characters in the novels of Elena Ferrante, which is why they’re so damn good.

And finally, if, like me, you happen to find complexity comforting, rather than threatening, then I’d urge you to spend an evening watching Adam Curtis documentaries on Youtube.  Whilst eating chocolate-covered coffee beans. Dark, milk, white, whatever….

Cheers. Here’s to a grown-up and heavily nuanced 2017.