{"id":140083,"date":"2019-10-09T09:00:33","date_gmt":"2019-10-09T13:00:33","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=140083"},"modified":"2019-10-09T14:12:41","modified_gmt":"2019-10-09T18:12:41","slug":"giovanni-boccaccios-one-and-only-good-book","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/10\/09\/giovanni-boccaccios-one-and-only-good-book\/","title":{"rendered":"The Most Interior Text of the 1300s"},"content":{"rendered":"

And you’ve never heard of it…<\/em>\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Decameron<\/em>\u2014that\u2019s a long book. I powered through it this past summer. I was like a self-propelled lawn mower, had to be. I had a lot of big books on my to-do list. Each one of \u2019em was allotted two weeks and no more.<\/p>\n

I \u201chad a good experience\u201d with Giovanni Boccaccio\u2019s Decameron<\/em>, though I did not love it. I only liked the stuff where Boccaccio speaks in his own voice. That is, I liked the frame narrative and the interruptions. He does that thing medieval writers do: he plays dumb. And I love it when authors play dumb. But 95 percent of the book is devoted to ten young people telling their stories\u2014you know the deal\u2014and those I did not care for.<\/p>\n

They\u2019re not good enough! It\u2019s all just a bunch of tricking and fucking and tricking and fucking\u2014and people doing what nobody would do, and saying what nobody would say. The fools (and there are a lot of them) are foolish the way people are in folktales. Like the gardener\u2019s son who piles his money in the yard and waters it, hoping to grow more. (That\u2019s not in the Decameron<\/em>; I made it up. But it\u2019s stuff just like that.)<\/p>\n

I kept thinking: I need some larger portion of these stories to be worth retelling. I should be wanting to get people on the phone. Instead, I\u2019d say maybe two or three out of the hundred are actually good stories. Good enough to regift.<\/p>\n

Chaucer, I\u2019m sure you all know, did not agree with what I\u2019m saying here. Except he did. He \u201cregifts\u201d the stuff, all right\u2014but he makes it much better. Chaucer knew what to do with Boccaccio. Chaucer can take anything, no matter how insipid, and make it good.<\/p>\n

I remember one time sitting in the car with a friend, and retelling the Wife of Bath\u2019s tale, floor to ceiling (I had just read it that day), and at one point when I paused, my friend said happily and with some surprise, \u201cI\u2019m riveted.\u201d See, now that\u2019s a good story. If the Decameron<\/em> stories were like that, the book would deserve its reputation.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The temptation is to pin the whole thing on the question of interiority. All of the characters are just ids running around. They have problems to solve. Obstacles. They scheme and prevail. The end. That\u2019s the Middle Ages for ya, right? Nobody except Saint Augustine knew anything about exulting over something other than material success and sensual pleasure. Unhappiness, too, was understood on about the same level. It comes from being cheated. So watch your back.<\/p>\n

Yet, listen to this.<\/p>\n

Boccaccio\u2014king, ultimate king of anti-interiority, writer of the most famous anti-interior text in Italian\u2014also wrote the most interior text of the fourteenth century, and you\u2019ve never heard of it, \u2019cuz you\u2019re not Italian. Let me clarify. Boccaccio wrote the most interior text of the 1300s, and you\u2019ve never heard of it.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s called The Elegy of Lady Fiammetta<\/em>. It\u2019s in prose. In modern English, it\u2019s around 120 pages. It\u2019s a \u201cmemoir\u201d in the voice of an intelligent, inward-looking, aristocratic woman, who has an extramarital affair and is abandoned by her lover. He goes away, says he\u2019ll be back in four months tops, and never comes back. We never even find out why.<\/p>\n

There are other events in the book, but mainly it\u2019s all in her head. Her husband\u2019s a nice guy, her friend. He doesn\u2019t know about the affair. She tries to kill herself. She has millions of theories. She charts her false hopes, her rages, her despairs. And the level of realism is very high. In fact, when I was recommending it to people after I read it in June (right after the Decameron<\/em>), there were certain people I felt should not be informed of the book\u2019s existence. I felt it would kill them dead.<\/p>\n

In fact, no one over the age of sixteen could read this thing without having very bad flashbacks from their own life. Times when you were the abandoned one, times when you were the abandoner. Fiammetta explains in the book that it\u2019s a warning to all ladies against love\u2014and by God, it is that.<\/p>\n

Her anguish swells up at the end, unforgettably. She starts talking to the book itself. She does that medieval thing: \u201cSo off you, go, little book\u2026\u201d But she says something more like: Go. And don\u2019t be written on nice paper, don\u2019t have a nice cover, because yours is not a nice story. And don\u2019t find your way into the hands of men\u2014you are not for them. And, especially, if ever you should fall under the lamp of the person who has done this to me, don\u2019t let him read you. Stay shut, be mute \u2026 unless, by some miracle, it were possible that he could be brought, through these words and pages, to repent. The end.<\/p>\n

If you want to see for yourself how realistic it is, get the University of Chicago translation, 1990 (Causa-Steindler and Maunch, translators). And once you\u2019ve recovered from that, you can join my reading group. We\u2019re going to be reading the Elizabethan translation of the book (Bartholomew Yong, 1587) this coming summer.<\/p>\n

But pause, for God\u2019s sake, for a second and consider the mystery of Giovanni Boccaccio. Just how is it, somebody please tell me, that the great master of dirty little empty stories that don\u2019t mean jack, could also write this thing, where you don\u2019t even like the narrator and yet your heart gets ripped out anyhow?<\/p>\n

The year is 1344, people. And the Black Death is coming up the steps.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Anthony Madrid lives in Victoria, Texas. His second book is\u00a0<\/em>Try Never<\/a>. He is a correspondent for the\u00a0<\/em>Daily.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

And you’ve never heard of it…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1005,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[58633],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-140083","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-our-poetry-correspondent"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Most Interior Text of the 1300s by Anthony Madrid<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"It\u2019s not what you think. 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