![\"\"](\"https:\/\/sites.exeter.ac.uk\/translatingwomen\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/601\/2020\/10\/Terranova.jpg\")
<\/p>\nThis week the new UK imprint of Seven Stories Press releases Nadia Terranova\u2019s English-language debut, a coming-of-age story with a family tragedy at its heart. Ida Laquidara is a 30-something writer living in Rome with her husband, the dependable (if not exactly passionate) Pietro. This apparently contented equilibrium is disrupted when Ida\u2019s mother calls her back home to Sicily to help her sort out the family home before she sells it; Ida\u2019s mother wants Ida to go through her childhood possessions and decide what to do with them. Yet this will prove an emotionally intense task, for the house and all Ida\u2019s former belongings are heavy with the memory of her father\u2019s abandonment: when Ida was 13, her father left the house one morning at 6.16 and never returned. Though Ida starts the novel by stating that \u201cthere\u2019s always a reason that memories should remain memories and not come to disturb the present\u201d, in the end her return to Messina makes the memories surge and threaten to engulf her if she does not finally confront them.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
We learn little about Ida\u2019s father, Sebastiano, other than that he was depressive and that Ida had to care for him while her mother went out to work. The abandonment is what remains: the unanswered questions, the life interrupted, the unexplained departure that leaves Ida \u201cthe daughter of the absence of Sebastiano Laquidara.\u201d As for Ida\u2019s relationship with her mother, it is fraught and tense: reigning over the household is the silence of a pain that they both had in common but never shared. The two women are \u201ca family that was maimed and full of silences\u201d, bound together by a mutual rage and an inability to move on from a morning in the 1990s that has defined their life.<\/p>\n
Twenty-three years on, the rooms in the family home are \u201csaturated with unused hope\u201d just like Ida and her mother, and the house itself is on the verge of falling apart. The walls, floors, plumbing and heating look in order but all threaten to give way at any time, and the metaphor is not much of a leap: Ida and her mother stay upright but brittle, silently imploding and never far from collapse. The clock, too, symbolises their life together: it is, Ida says, stuck forever at 6.16 \u2013 and so are they (she notes that \u201cinside me the clock had never signaled afternoon\u201d). The unresolved trauma of Sebastiano\u2019s disappearance weighs heavy on the household, the women and their emotional lives, both of them turning into fortresses who refuse to open up but are eroding on the inside. The Sicilian landscape also comes alive in Ida\u2019s story, aesthetically beautiful and dramatic but unwelcoming to her. Messina is her father\u2019s city, its shoreline walked by him so often, and her certainty that he has returned to the sea both evokes images of the (overtly referenced) mythological creatures hiding in the deep and provides the turning point for Ida\u2019s voyage back into her past.<\/p>\n
Ann Goldstein\u2019s translation successfully conveys the melancholy that treads a delicate path between concision and self-indulgence. The language is suitably limpid, refusing to descend into melodrama even as dramatic events unfold: \u201cDeath is a full stop, while disappearance is the absence of a stop, of any punctuation mark at the end of the words.\u201d This considered, almost detached narration makes the heart of the story is all the more effective (for example, in the observation that \u201ca depressed man had consciously and forever left life and the two of us.\u201d) There aren\u2019t so many of the syntactical or collocational calques that characterise other translations of Goldstein\u2019s that I\u2019ve read, and those that are there are slightly less noticeable, such as \u201cMy mother and I didn\u2019t know how to repair the damage and so we lived it\u201d, or they simply add to the way in which the narrative voice is constructed (\u201cTwenty-three years ago I put in here the proofs of the existence of a man named Sebastiano Laquidara, in this red box I buried the smell and voice of my father.\u201d)<\/p>\n
Though Ida at times appeared a self-absorbed narrator, the defining moment in her emotional journey is realising that this is what she has become: someone so consumed with the pain of her own grief that she is no longer alive to the grief of others. Ida\u2019s pain has taken up so much space that there was no room for anyone else, and this realisation may just be the key to letting it go \u2013 not to making amends, or to making good on the past, but to releasing her ghosts and allowing the living to take their place: Farewell, Ghosts <\/em>is a melancholic and reflective novel that swells with intelligence and heart.<\/p>\n Translated from Italian by Ann Goldstein (Seven Stories Press, 2020) This week the new UK imprint of Seven Stories Press releases Nadia Terranova\u2019s English-language debut, a coming-of-age story with a family tragedy at its heart. Ida Laquidara is a 30-something writer living in Rome with her husband, the dependable (if not exactly passionate) Pietro. This […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2429,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[17],"tags":[85,331,465,637,837],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nReview copy of Farewell, Ghosts<\/em> provided by Seven Stories Press<\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"