Forbidden notebook A novel

Late Italo-Cuban author de Céspedes (Between Then and Now) spins a fearlessly probing and candid look at marital dynamics and generational divisions, first published in Italy in 1952. Narrator Valeria Cossati views her life, aside from getting married and having children, as "rather insignificant," until November 1950, when she starts keeping a journal in pursuit of the idea that "if we can learn to understand the smallest things that happen every day, then maybe we can learn to truly understand the secret meaning of life." She reflects on her family's financial troubles, which persist despite her job as a secretary, and society's domestic expectations of her to prioritize being a mother and wife. Her daughter, Mirella, 19, starts staying out late with a man in his 30s, while her son, Riccardo, resentful of his younger sister's aspirations, courts a mousy, traditional girl. Valeria's husband, Michele, buoyed briefly by a raise, loses himself in dreams of a career change, as Valeria, frustrated at Michele's neglect, fantasizes about an affair with her boss, Guido, and glimpses a richer, more passionate world. The diary takes on a life of its own for Valeria; she calls it "an evil spirit," which de Céspedes (1911--1997) makes palpable. As Valeria writes, she finds herself "drawn into acts that I condemn and yet which, like this notebook, I seem unable to do without." Goldstein's translation invigorates a remarkable story, one that remains intensely relevant across time, cultures, and continents. (Jan.)

A new translation of a 1952 novel by Italian Cuban author de Céspedes traces the radical impact that writing down her thoughts has on the life of a woman in her 40s. When Valeria Cossati isn't at work, she dedicates all her time to her family, which includes a slightly older husband and two children who are studying law at a university in Rome, where they all live in a cramped apartment. One Sunday morning in November, when Valeria goes out to buy cigarettes to surprise her husband, who's sleeping in, she's drawn to a display of notebooks in the window of the tobacco shop. She can't resist picking up one of the "black, shiny, thick" notebooks. The owner sternly informs her he is forbidden to sell anything but tobacco on Sundays--and then hands her a notebook to slip inside her coat. Once home, she wildly looks for a place to hide it, afraid that her family will laugh at her for keeping a diary when she has such a humdrum life. Over the next six months, as she restlessly moves the notebook from one hiding place to another, she begins to stay up late and neglect her household duties to write down her previously repressed thoughts about her stale marriage, her fraught relationship with her daughter, her worries about her unmotivated son, and her blossoming romantic feelings for her boss. "For the first time in twenty-three years of marriage, I'm doing something for myself," she writes. De Céspedes deftly charts the widening gap between Valeria's increasingly desperate inner life and the roles she feels forced to play in a feminist novel that consistently calls into question the ways its narrator makes sense of her claustrophobic domestic world. A wrenching, sardonic depiction of a woman caught in a social trap. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

November 26, 1950 I was wrong to buy this notebook, very wrong. But it's too late now for regrets, the damage is done. I don't even know what impelled me to buy it--pure chance. I've never thought of keeping a diary, partly because a diary has to be secret, and so it would have to be hidden from Michele and the children. I don't like hiding things; besides, there's so little space in our house it would be impossible to manage. Here's how it happened. Two weeks ago, it was a Sunday, I left the house rather early in the morning. I was going to buy cigarettes for Michele. I wanted him to find them on his night table when he woke up: he always sleeps in on Sunday. It was a beautiful day, warm, though it was late autumn. I felt a childish pleasure walking along the streets, on the sunny side, and seeing the trees still green and people happy as they always seem to be on holidays. So I decided to take a short stroll and go to the tobacco shop in the square. Along the way I saw that a lot of people were stopping at the flower stall, so I stopped, too, and bought a bunch of calendulas. "You need flowers on the table on a Sunday," the flower seller said to me. "Men notice." I smiled, nodding, but the truth is, I wasn't thinking of Michele or of Riccardo when I was buying those flowers, even though Riccardo does seem to appreciate them. I bought them for myself, to hold while I walked. The tobacco shop was crowded. Waiting my turn, with the cigarette money ready, I saw a stack of notebooks in the window. They were black, shiny, thick, the type used in school, in which--before even starting it--I would immediately write my name excitedly on the first page: Valeria. "I would also like a notebook," I said, digging in my purse to find some more money. But when I looked up, I saw that the tobacconist had assumed a severe expression to tell me: "I can't. It's forbidden." He explained that an officer stood guard at the door, every Sunday, to make sure that he sold tobacco only, nothing else. I was alone now in the shop. "I need it," I said, "I absolutely need it." I was speaking in a whisper, agitated, ready to insist, plead. So he looked around, then quickly grabbed a notebook and handed it to me across the counter, saying: "Hide it under your coat." I kept the notebook under my coat all the way home. I was afraid it would slide out, fall on the ground while the porter was telling me something or other about the gas pipes. I felt flushed when I turned the key to open the door to the apartment. I started to sneak off to my room, but I remembered that Michele was still in bed. Meanwhile Mirella was calling me: "Mamma . . . " Riccardo asked, "Did you buy the paper, mamma?" I was agitated, confused, I was afraid I wouldn't manage to be alone while I took off my coat. "I'll put it in the closet," I thought. "No, Mirella's always going in there to get something of mine to wear, a pair of gloves, a blouse. The night table, Michele always opens it. The desk is now occupied by Riccardo. "I considered that in the entire house, I no longer had a drawer, orany storage space, that was still mine. I proposed to assert my rights starting that day. "In the linen closet," I decided. Then I recalled that every Sunday Mirella gets out a clean tablecloth when she's setting the table. I finally threw it in the ragbag, in the kitchen. I had only just closed the bag when Mirella came in and said, "What's wrong, mamma? You're all red in the face." "It must be the coat," I said, taking it off. "It's warm out today." It seemed to me that she might say: "That's not true. It's because you've hidden something in the bag." In vain I tried to convince myself that I had done nothing wrong. Again I heard the tobacconist's voice warning me: "It's forbidden." Excerpted from Forbidden Notebook: A Novel by Alba de Céspedes All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.