In this early and particularly revealing collection of stories by a man who is now seen as one of the greatest Italian writers of the century, Pavese’s unafraid, acid-strong gaze burns through social appearances to reveal the callousness of much human behaviour, and does so with an honesty that is empowering rather than depressing.


In The Evil Eye an ordinary man who is neither handsome, powerful, clever nor well-connected is treated like a dog. In Misogyny a couple literally appear out of the fog, young, in desperate trouble, feverish and anguished; no explanation is given, there is just a superb malaise. Summer Storm has a pair of low-lifers who suddenly turn nasty, characters reminiscent of many of those in Pasolini’s A Violent Life.


The extraordinary story The Idol shows a besotted lover waiting for the object of his desire outside the brothel where she, apparently willingly, works while he torments himself with thoughts of her serving her clients. There is something particularly awful and convincing about the characters in this story. Part of the effect comes from the subtle way Pavese conveys the passing of time, making us perceive it through the protagonist’s individual consciousness — a talent he shares with Flaubert, Conrad and Joyce.


The Family might offer insights into Pavese the man, and perhaps into other intellectual types as well, the kind of people who enjoy their solitude more than they regret not being in company. Like much of his writing, it contains terrifically effective portraits of women characters. Pavese was both fascinated and jealous of women’s sociability and seems to have suffered from as well as enjoyed his intellectual solitude. He painted women in the light of his resentful fascination, but there is also an astonishing empathy — perhaps he understood women too well to get along with them.


‘One morning she unexpectedly asked to see my room and put it tidy for me. Nervously I took her up the old, gloomy staircase and threw open the window as soon as we were inside. With fresh air and light there came a new awareness. On the floor lay my gaping suitcase near the half-opened cupboard, and a pile of old catalogues from my firm. The dirty coffee cups on the side table and the untouched bed were just as I had seen but scarcely noticed as I went out a little while ago. Mina walked over to me and kissed me. Even today, when it’s all over, I still tremble at the memory of the pure, firm sweetness of her hidden body. All the time Mina gazed at me with her limpid eyes, caressing my spine. There was a fresh atmosphere about it all, such as I have never known since.’ The Idol p27