To say that I have a few autobiographical similarities to the narrator of Elena Ferrante’s —a single novel in four installments often referred to in English as “The Neapolitan Novels” or the Neapolitan “Quartet”— would be a vast understatement. Like the narrator of all four volumes, Elena (“Lenu”) Greco, I was also born into a close-knit yet violent Italian neighborhood that no one ever seemed to leave, and, like Lenu, I fantasized constantly about “getting out,” using education as my primary propeller toward a different fate. Like Lenu, I became a writer, married a brainy introvert from a more educated family, raised children, struggled with the dichotomies between family life and making art, had a passionate affair, found myself constantly returning to the city I’d once sworn to escape, ultimately left my marriage, and struggled with the challenges of making a living as a writer while parenting three children.
Most significantly, as it is the heart of the Neapolitan Novels, my youth was also marked indelibly by my intimacy with a more beautiful, more charismatic and powerful girl who, despite her many gifts, seemed doomed. In Ferrante’s novels, this is the character of Raffaella Cerullo, called “Lina” by everyone but the narrator, who calls her only Lila. In my own memoir, , I dubbed this friend “Angie,” a composite character streamlined both for narrative clarity and to protect privacy.
In this text, I will therefore continue to refer to t.
