The lies we tell others and ourselves

I am currently watching The Lying Life of Adults series on Netflix, based on the book of the same name by Elena Ferrante. I read the book in 2021 and wrote a post about it (A New Yorker in Oslo: Elena Ferrante's The Lying Life of Adults (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com). The Netflix series encompasses six episodes, and I've already seen four of them. Elena Ferrante has been involved in the writing of the script for the series, and you can always tell when she has had her hand in things. There is a certain identifying mark that raises the overall quality to very good (this series: The Lying Life of Adults (TV Series 2023– ) - IMDb) to superb (My Brilliant Friend on HBO: My Brilliant Friend (TV Series 2018– ) - IMDb ). The series was created by Edoardo De Angelis (every time I see his last name on the screen I have to smile since it is my last name as well, spelled the same way). His wife Pina Turco plays Nella, whose husband Andrea leaves her for Costanza, a family friend. But by extension, he leaves his teenage daughter Giovanna as well. The series is about Giovanna (very well-acted by Giordana Marengo) and her growing up amidst the turmoil around her: her parents' separation and divorce; her father's eventual remarriage to Costanza and his new home in Posillipo (an affluent area of Naples) on the Gulf of Naples; Giovanna's introduction to her aunt Vittoria (wonderfully-acted by Valeria Golino) and to the family of Enzo, Vittoria's now-deceased lover; her relationships with her two best friends, Angela and Ida, who just happen to be Costanza's daughters. But it is her relationship with Vittoria (Andrea's sister whom he cannot abide) that changes her life and moves her firmly into adulthood. 

Andrea, Nella, Costanza, Mariano (Costanza's ex-husband), and Vittoria all lie to others and to themselves. Andrea and Costanza have lived a lie for years by having an affair and keeping it secret. Nella has either refused to see the truth or has turned a blind eye to it; in any case, she continues to defend Andrea and to call him a good man. Vittoria initially seems to be the most honest of all the adults in Giovanna's life, but she too turns out to be a liar who tells herself and others (particularly Giovanna) that she loved only Enzo and has never been with another man since he died, but this is not true. Giovanna learns that she cannot trust very many people, which of course is the demarcation between childhood and adulthood. What do you do with that knowledge? What do you do when you find out that the adults in your life are no better at handling/navigating their lives than the teenagers they are trying to raise? What do you do when you find out that their lives are as miserable and chaotic as yours? 

The lies we tell others and ourselves, when others ask us how we are, how our lives are going. How many people really answer honestly? We do so with those few people we love and trust, with our closest friends. We know we can trust them to listen to us without judging us, without abandoning us. That is a rarity in a world that seeks to judge (and cancel) another immediately without knowing or being interested in the facts. Of course we can ask, what is the truth? Is your side of a story truer than mine? We all lie to ourselves to some extent; we do so in order to deal with each day. We tell ourselves that our spouses and children are better than those of others we know, but the reality is otherwise. All families have problems, perhaps the same types of problems but to varying degrees. All families have squabbles, some have real fights, and some are on the outs with other family members for entire lifetimes. We may not have much of a relationship with a sibling, but we say that he or she has a busy life and we talk to them when we can. A spouse may not be all that involved in the family life at home, and we make the same excuse--he or she has a demanding job that keeps him or her busy. Those who are workaholics know that they are overworking to avoid something else in their lives, perhaps an unhappy home life, and those who are diehard alcoholics, drug addicts and overeaters tell themselves that they have their addictions under control, that they can quit drinking, doing drugs, or overeating any time they want. But deep down inside, they know the truth; they can't quit overworking, drinking to excess, doing drugs, or overeating, not without help and a lot of motivation to change. Lying to ourselves, even just a little, helps to mitigate the intensity of our problems. And for most of us, it does; we get through each day without major calamities ensuing. But for those with serious problems, those problems just get worse. 

It might not be a good thing if we were always honest about our thoughts and feelings in relation to others. Little white lies help us survive in what could be awkward situations with loved ones. We do our best to be truthful, but sometimes you have to weigh the situation and ask yourself if others (or you yourself) can tolerate hearing the truth or the answers to the questions they've asked. I think of those I know with health problems; is it better for them to hear that their overall prognosis could be good if they do this or that, rather than dismal because of the type of illness they have or because of one's hereditary tendencies? Nobody wants to be told straight out that they are going to die in a few months or years. And if people are told that, they often want to consider themselves the outliers--those few who fall outside the norm. Can you blame people for thinking this way? I think we are hotwired to think this way to some degree, due to the idea of self-preservation and the instinct for survival. We lie to ourselves in the hope that it will turn out alright. And sometimes it does. 

Elena Ferrante's The Lying Life of Adults

I begin Elena Ferrante's novels with a mixture of fascination and dread. Fascination, because everything I've read by her has gripped me. Her novels are riveting and her words flow on the pages, moving me along and immersing me in her Italy, her Naples, and her family dramas that she has carefully constructed. Dread, because I know that this immersion will stir up the mud in my own life and memory; it will murky the waters that I think are so clear, and yet when I dive deeper, I know they aren't.

How is it that one person, one writer, can speak to me and to so many people at the same time? She has an uncanny way of getting right to the core of what drives families apart and what keeps them together. She describes the behaviors, utterances and dramas that comprise the push and pull of family life, mostly without judging them, and that is where the fear comes in. Because you know that the behaviors she writes about are real and often violent to the spirit and body. Sometimes she judges them, but only within the contexts of her characters, the ones who want to escape the oppression, claustrophobia, and violence of family life. She allows them to judge, and we follow their attempts to escape, which are seemingly successful, but we know that somewhere down the line, the past will knock on their door and demand its due. At some point, they will face the same situations that they ran from, and come face to face with their early selves—the ones who said that they would never tolerate this or that behavior, the ones who said that they would never behave like their parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents. They experience the human frailties, deceptions, betrayals, frustrations, rage, and even violence (psychological and physical) that can be part of family life. The characters in her books are flawed human beings, like we all are. Perhaps that is part of her appeal. She explains some parts of our lives for us; I know she does that for me. I finish her novels thinking, yes, that helps to explain this or that family member’s behavior, or utterances, or bizarre points of view.

Everyone lies in Ferrante’s novels. Adults lie, but so do children and teenagers. The Lying Life of Adults is really the story of how teenagers become adults who lie to themselves and to others. It is the story of how we become the adults we profess to hate. Giovanna, the main character who is a teenager, is acutely aware of the hypocritical behavior of the adults in her life. She has two friends she confides in, Angela and Ida, the daughters of her parents’ friends Mariano and Costanza. Her attempt to develop a relationship with her hated aunt Vittoria, her father’s sister, has far-reaching repercussions for her parents, her parents’ friends, involved children, and her own life. Vittoria is a destructive force of nature. She is (presumably) the opposite of Giovanna’s educated, intellectual and refined father, Andrea, who hates his coarse uneducated sister (the feeling is mutual), and yet, that is what Ferrante wants to show us, that at their core, both Vittoria and Andrea are the same. They are egotists and liars, they think nothing of destroying others’ lives by wanting what they want (Vittoria wanted Enzo--the husband of her friend Margherita, and Andrea wanted Costanza—the wife of his friend Mariano). They justify their betrayals of spouses and families and lie to themselves about how ‘noble’ their intentions are. Nella, Andrea’s wife, is crushed by his betrayal and their eventual divorce, but tries to live her life following the divorce as best she can. Mariano, who has cheated on Costanza often, is also lost; eventually Nella and Mariano find each other despite Nella’s protests to the contrary. Giovanna is witness to all of these happenings. At the same time, she becomes friends with Vittoria (who worshipped Enzo), Margherita, and Margherita’s children (Corrado, Tonino, and Giuliana). Vittoria dominates Margherita and her children’s lives; she tells them how to live and what to do and not to do. The relationship between Vittoria and Margherita is strange and one I found hard to understand, but for the purposes of the book, I accepted it. But I know very few people in real life who would have become friends with their husbands’ mistresses.

Vittoria brought to the surface memories of my father’s eldest sister Carmela, who was also not much-liked in my family. Unlike Vittoria, she was considered to be good-looking; she was a refined woman with many intellectual and cultural interests. But she was a drama queen, and no family gathering ever ended pleasantly when she was present. She was unhappily married to one of my father’s childhood friends, which didn’t help matters. My father probably felt pressured to take sides, and he took his sister’s side against his friend. My mother and my aunt did not get along at all; my mother found her domineering, controlling, and nosy. Carmela and her husband eventually divorced; she lived alone afterward until she died, but did have a lover whom she could have married but chose not to. After one too many unpleasant family gatherings when we were children, my father and mother decided not to see her anymore, and by extension, we were not to see her either. After my father died, my sister and I made an effort to re-establish contact with her. We found her to be a decent person, but of course by that time she was old and in a different frame of mind. I think she was happy to see us again, but our lives were busy and we didn’t see her often. She died eight years after my father.

I could relate to those feelings that Ferrante describes—remaining loyal to parents while wondering why we all couldn’t just get along, and feeling guilty for wanting to have some kind of relationship with my aunt. My aunt made an effort to remember our birthdays with gifts and cards, but they were never well-received, and eventually she ceased to make the effort. I remember when my grandmother died, I was around twelve or so. Frustrations and anger came to the surface, people said things they probably regretted, and the war only intensified. It was difficult to deal with all those feelings as a child. But I knew even then that this kind of family life was oppressive and claustrophobic, and I wanted no part of it. And for the most part, I have managed to escape it, but not without many mistakes and poor decisions of my own before I got to a place in life with which I could be comfortable. Reading Ferrante reminds me of my early family life, and it’s a mixed blessing, as I wrote at the beginning of this post—I am fascinated by what she manages to stir up in me, and fearful of it at the same time. Like a moth to the flame, as the old saying goes. I know I will get burned. Unlike the moth, I survive being burned, but it is a strange experience nonetheless.