Why read "Dove finiscono gli anni" by Alessandro D’Avenia

Alessandro D’Avenia’s new novel is "Dove finiscono gli anni". The title suggests that the professor will narrate the story of an adult. An adult does appear from time to time, yes: it is the now-grown-up protagonist, trapped in a garage-like version of Plato’s cave where his cynicism clashes with the memories and hunger of his seventeenth year. But these seem to be merely brief narrative interludes, providing a counterpoint to the main narrative – namely, the improbable investigations of the most classic D’Avenia-esque hero: grappling with Palermo (in disguise), the inadequacy of things, the search for meaning, the heartfelt critique of the school system (where ‘public’ is synonymous with ‘nobody’s’), and love par excellence, amidst crackling wordplay and lush eloquence. The pages fly by, and all the while you find yourself wondering whether, deep down, this is just the ‘usual’ D’Avenia novel, or something different.

Then the impression shifts. Could this be not just yet another book by the author, but a distillation of their body of work? There is a girl who dies, a passion for the theatre, fragility, Leopardi, Homer, even that ‘getting on people’s nerves’ which characterised the novel about Don Pino Puglisi. Self-referentiality? It would not seem so. Rather, a synthesis.

D’Avenia may well be drawing a line under things, as he approaches his fiftieth birthday and emerges from a ‘period of bewilderment’ (to quote from the Acknowledgements). But that is not all. He is shaking off some of the baggage, exploring the facets of Evil in greater depth than in his previous novels. Sorrow and joy counterbalance one another, and in doing so they deepen and rise. It is a ‘lofty’ novel, in the Latin sense of the term: up and down. This is where that adult in the garage comes from: he reveals that even a D’Avenian hero can grow into the most insipid of adults – that is, a traitor (to himself) – simply to avoid failing to meet the world’s standards. This bitter note of realism does not seem out of place; on the contrary, it enhances the ‘essence of the story’.

D’Avenia, in fact, despite the wounds he has experienced and recounted – and perhaps precisely because of them – never stops doing what he does best: shouting out to young people (and to adults who don’t already know it all) that pain does not have the final say, that life is vast and beautiful, that we are not flawed, that it is possible to live without succumbing to trends, nihilism or death, and that ‘the years remain intact in eternal life’. On the other hand, ‘what is the point of being seventeen if not to understand the secret to being happy even at thirty-seven’? One might wonder whether D’Avenia is not a little naïve, still believing in joy. But he would not be the only one, given the following he enjoys despite a message that is by no means in line with the dictates of mainstream opinion. Therefore, without dismissing it outright, it would be worthwhile to read it, encourage others to do so, and—why not?—treat him to a coffee on Viale Trastevere.

Alessandro D’Avenia
, "Dove finiscono gli anni
" (Mondadori), 360 pp., 20 euros