The Story of the Lost Child

 

The Story of the Lost Child by Elena Ferrante
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

So now it comes full circle. What was a childhood incident has become reality. The idea that has been flitting in and out of the pages has become front and center--the visibility and identity of the main characters--as women, as political players, as mothers, as lovers, as people who move in this world. What could make a person completely disappear? What happened, why, who is responsible? Some characters physically disappear but as Ferrante's narration completes, we realize there are so many moments when the main characters were invisible, either by choice or by circumstance. They defined themselves by each other, by their friends, money, education, connections, political affliations, familial obligations, but did they really ever discover who THEY were? Were they ever truly seen by another? Are we? Often we are invisible, but just as often we choose to hide behind others and belittle our own existence. Perhaps it is inevitable. Of course, as these women slide into old age, their lives become more and more about routine and the "author" even lets whole decades go by in a few paragraphs. I look back to The Story of a New Name where most of the book is one summer--but while sometimes I felt I was plodding along just to finish the saga, I couldn't give up on the two characters that truly grew on me and I cared how they ended up. So many insights and truths along this journey, and although I didn't always like what the main characters did, they felt real and I couldn't wait to see what they would do next.

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At those moments I saw myself suddenly for what I was: a slave, willing to always do what he wanted,

I, whatever I among those I was accumulating, I would remain firm, I was the needle of the compass that stays fixed while the lead traces circles around it.

When, in spite of her defensive manipulation of persons and things, the liquid prevailed, Lila lost Lila, chaos seemed the only truth, and she—so active, so courageous—erased herself and, terrified, became nothing.

Being close to him gave you the impression of being visible, especially to yourself, and you were content.

that if I went on like that I would lose myself.

Finally it was clear that what I was wasn’t her, and vice versa.

I was I and for that very reason I could make space for her in me and give her an enduring form.

But if she disappears, if you no longer know anything about her, there’s not a thing that remains in her place, in your life.