All Our Yesterdays

by Natalia Ginzburg, Angus Davidson (Translator)

Set against the backdrop of Italy between 1939 to 1944 - the months of anxiety before the country entered the war, through to the tension following the Allied victory - "All Our Yesterdays" follows the lives of two families during the period of great turbulence.

Genres: Fiction, Italy, Historical Fiction, Italian Literature, Classics, War, Literary Fiction

300 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1952

About the author

Natalia Ginzburg (née Levi) was an Italian author whose work explored family relationships, politics during and after the Fascist years and World War II, and philosophy. She wrote novels, short stories and essays, for which she received the Strega Prize and Bagutta Prize. Most of her works were also translated into English and published in the United Kingdom and United States. An activist, for a time in the 1930s she belonged to the Italian Communist Party. In 1983 she was elected to Parliament from Rome as an Independent.

Reviews

[Jim Fonseca · Rating 5 out of 5]

The author is one of my favorite Italian authors and this is the first one of hers I am adding to my favorites bookshelf.

It’s the story of two Italian families in the time leading up to and during WW II – roughly 1939 to 1945. One family is rich (they own the leather factory in town), and the family next door is middle class. Both have lots of kids and in Ginzburg’s style, all are flawed. Even toddlers in her novel are angry or manipulative or silent and so are all the adults flawed – in personality and in appearance.



Even the one older girl who is most attractive and has boys waiting outside the gate for her to come out (her father won’t let them in the house) is too small in her bosom and too big in her hips and thighs. Others are too short, head too small, or otherwise misshapen.

It’s clear that the author is giving us a view of “life in Italy during the war.” The focus on the rich and poorer families is in an urban setting in the north of Italy. In part 2 of the novel, starting in mid-war, the focus shifts to the impoverished rural Italian south.

Dramatic and mundane events keep coming like a soap opera with deaths, suicides, adultery and abandonment. At times the story is Jerry Springer-like as when one daughter marries the crazy older man, a family friend who lives in the richer house, who was having an affair with her mother. Obviously the mother-daughter relationship is damaged for the rest of their lives. And the man is Jewish, so as Italy aligns with Germany, tension builds about what will happen to him. Another daughter marries a black-shirt-wearing fascist.



When the fathers die, the boys are released from paternal oppression and they start anti-fascist activities. One eventually gets arrested and the others are terrified he will turn all of them in. The boys too are all flawed – arrogant, indifferent, impractical. The poorer family lost their mother early in life and an older woman who was their maid simply adopts the role of mother – they call her Signora Maria.

With air raids, constant movement of soldiers and distant bombs going off, the two families prepare their basement for survival mode. It’s a study of how people react to the stress of impending war. They hang on to every radio bulletin while they wait for a German blitzkrieg. The daughter of the middle-class family realizes how pitiful their preparations are and she asks the rich neighbors if she can shelter in their basement when necessary. One daughter has a baby and has the same nightmare over and over of carrying the baby while running away from bombs and tanks. A daughter who is secretly pregnant (but unmarried) dreams (almost hopes) that she and her unborn baby will be killed by the Germans. The boys react differently. One goes to bed after supper and sleeps until noon; another has insomnia and paces the floor all night.

Yet in the early years the war is not yet all-consuming and they even go off for their usual summer vacations. Later they will have rationing and terrible government-issued gray bread and square green soap.

Initially Jews are taken out of the cities and sent to small towns in the south so they “can’t interfere with the war.” (As was the author due to her Jewish husband who was later killed in a concentration camp.) It’s just a question of time before they are herded onto trucks and trains to be shipped to concentration camps. German soldiers occupied Italian towns and conscripted Italian men to work in German factories (where many of them died due to Allied bombing of the factories). In 1943 the Allies fire-bombed Milan, Turin and Genoa and hundreds were killed and a quarter million left homeless. The families wait for the soap factory to be bombed.

Just one example of good writing: “But he said that all men made you sorry for them if you looked at them closely, and that in fact one ought to guard against that excess of compassion which arose suddenly, from looking closely at people.”



I’ve read a lot of translations of Italian novels set during the war and it seems to me this is the perfect book to learn what life was like in Italy during WW II. And it’s a great family saga with a lot of believable twists and turns.

Top photo of bombing damage in Milan in 1943 from wikipedia
Survivors of bombings in Emilia Romagna province in northern Italy from thereggioapproach.weebly.com
The author from dauntbookspublishing.co.uk

[Fionnuala]

There were many times during this novel, set in Italy during the 1930s and '40s, when I silently cheered the author for the efficient way she'd chosen to tell a momentous episode, the low-key tone and the few words used, where another writer might create pages and pages of text and not speak to me half as clearly.

That's it really. Natalia Ginzburg speaks to me. I like the spareness of her writing. In fact the spareness made me feel I could read her in Italian so I looked at an ebook of the original and I was able to read the first few pages. Admittedly, I knew already what they were about, but still it was an achievement, and it confirmed the feeling I got from the English translation, that she can say a lot with a little.

But in case I've given the impression that she writes in a very simple, short-sentence kind of way, it has to be said that she can write flowingly too, long sentences stitched together with commas that allow the reader to glide through them easily, never having to hesitate over the meaning of what they are reading.

But that's not to say there's no deep meaning here. A line of poetry by the Italian poet Eugenio Montale is quoted in Italian at one point, and it describes well what I'm trying to convey: ‘Che ha in cima cocci aguzzi di bottiglia,’ (There are sharp shards of bottles stuck into the top of the wall). Natalia Ginzburg's text is like that. You don't know when you're going to hit on a sharp shard that will cut deep.

The title too is full of sharp shards. I recognised its origin because my bookgroup chose to read Gabrielle Zevin's Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow recently, and while I didn't have time (or maybe inclination) to read that book, the title seemed familiar enough to make me look it up. It's from Macbeth:
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

All Our Yesterdays took me back to that verse, and I was struck by how well Natalia Ginzburg had embedded so much of Shakespeare's painful message into her story.
Was death ever so dusty and pointless as in side-switching Italy during WWII?

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

Like so many Italian writers of her generation, Natalia Ginzburg has found her most enduring inspiration in the fact of the Second World War, as well as in its causes and terrible consequences. Ginzburg, who's first husband Leone, a Russian Jew, was arrested, tortured and killed in 1944 for his underground activities of running an anti-fascist newspaper, has written a powerful novel on Italy during its darkest days of the 20th century, giving a sharp and penetrating portrait of a society desperate for change, but betrayed by war.

All Our Yesterdays is very much a novel about family, but is told in its entirety with no dialogue, only reported speech. It tells the story of a family from a small town in Northern Italy, in the time leading up to the outbreak of war, through to the Allied liberation. It concentrates on the lives of four children: Concettina, Ippolito, Giustino and Anna. Their father dies having already lost their mother, and after a period of time the attention focuses on the youngest of the family, Anna. At sixteen she becomes pregnant and her boyfriend Giuma abandons her after giving her the money to have an abortion. Then War suddenly brakes out, her brother Ippolito ends up shooting himself, and in time of dread she is rescued from her plight by Cenzo Rena, an extravagant and eccentric friend of her father’s who turns up out of the blue and offers to marry her. Despite the disapproval of the rest of her family, who are unaware that she is pregnant, she leaves with Cenzo for a village in the South.

The second half of the novel is about their life together, and draws directly on Ginzburg’s own memories as during the war she and Leone were sent to live in a village in the Abruzzi. Whilst the terrible deviation of war is strongly observed, Ginzburg writes just as much of the small everyday occurrences, like family bickering, adultery, lies and deception. Her writing is distinctive, and in every respect different. She doesn't dramatise matters, and the narrative phrasing rarely extends over more than a paragraph, and mostly is confined to single sentences. Ginzburg’s prose is limpid with a detached feel to it, and rhetoric is banished from her style.

I read this novel over weeks rather than days, and it really did benefit to read it as slow as possible. Had Proust lived though WWII its the sort of novel he could have written. This is certainly not an exhilarating piece of WWII fiction, nor is it a walk in the park, it was tough I admit, and you really have to get on board and put in the work. I know a couple of friends who couldn't get through it, claiming it was a bore. Obviously I disagree, but each to their own.

[Violet wells · Rating 5 out of 5]

It's always especially intriguing to read a novel about WW2 by an author who lived through it. One knows there won't be the intimidating burden of making the described world appear authentic, of getting all the period detail right. We're reading a novel informed by memory instead of research. And the result is often perhaps a greater elasticity, a breath of freedom from that straining for gravitas many contemporary writers aspire to. In novels written by authors who experienced the war there's never any trace of the melodrama and sentimentality which constitutes the foundation (and selling point) of so many contemporary WW2 novels. Ww2 is being turned into a fairy story by modern fiction where we're being led to believe you could even survive a death camp if you were endowed with a sufficient supply of what's usually referred to as the human spirit. It's an idea that is profoundly offensive to every luckless individual who died at the hands of the Nazis.

Natalia Ginzburg's husband was tortured and murdered by the Gestapo; she was half Jewish and all her family and friends opposed the fascists. She had every reason to be bitter and angry. And yet the tone of this novel has a gorgeous warm vibrancy and the characters are pulsing with complex humanity. This is a moment of history as lived by ordinary people who are made extraordinary by circumstances. Her characters all have to cope with the same dilemmas we have to cope with. The war doesn't narrow her characters down to the single depersonalising imperative of survival. It's an unwanted pregnancy that drives the plot and determines circumstances rather than the war itself. There's an unpleasant Jewish character, something else you won't find in contemporary crowd-pleasing ww2 novels. The darker emotions of the war are all present but she treats the bitterness, anger, fear and calumny of her characters with a wry detachment and a remarkable generosity of spirit. There's tremendous wisdom in the tone of this novel; a beautiful and rewarding philosophy of life underpins and guides its narrative voice.

[JimZ · Rating 5 out of 5]

I have no idea why I got this book. But I can tell you I rated it 5 stars. I read it in one day. Ginzburg was not flowery in her prose. It was an interesting story from start to finish. I heartily recommend it. 🙂 🙃 It’s about two families in Italy, one family well off and one not so well off before World War II and during it.

When I read, I jot down notes. Initially I tend to write down the character’s names and how they are related to others in the book, and their ages...and I also write down sentences that I like. I tend not to write down sentences when I’m at the very beginning of a book, but this book was an exception. I had to write down this sentence that was in the second paragraph of the book.
• At the cemetery Signora Maria would pray, but the two children did not, because their father always said it was silly to pray, and perhaps God might exist but it was no use praying to Him, He was God and knew of His own accord how matters stood.

In looking for reviews on the book (which was originally published in 1952 in Italian and then in 1956 in English by Angus Davidson), I found a review in The Guardian (see the first review below) and the reviewers says not to start off with Natalia Ginzburg’s oeuvre with this book because “...The manner of telling – long paragraphs, run-on sentences and little direct speech – and the way the story flits from character to character, viewpoints overlapping like tiles on a roof, makes for a dense reading experience, though a rewarding one. A better place to start is with her essays The Little Virtues or the memoir Family Lexicon.” I will look forward to reading those novels to be sure, but this was my introduction to Natalia Ginzburg and I loved the book. Sally Rooney (well-known Irish author [Normal People, Conversation with Friends] and screenwriter) in her review of ‘All Our Yesterdays’ also apparently thought this book was a good one to start off with so I’m not the only one who feels this way (see second review below)! 🙂 This book really touched Sally Rooney...I’d urge you to read her review.

Synopsis (written by William Weaver, May 5 1985, NYT) from back of the edition I read from (Arcade, 1989):
• This powerful novel, set against the background of Italy from 1939 to 1944, from the anxious months before the country entered the war, through the war years, to the Allied victory with it trailing wake of anxiety, disappointment, and grief. In the foreground are the members of two families. One is rich, the other is not. In ‘All Our Yesterdays’, as in all of Ms. Ginzburg’s novels. Terrible things happen — suicide, murder, air raids, and bombings. But less awesome events, like a family quarrel, an adultery, or a deception, are given equal space., as if to say that to a victim adultery and air raids can be equally maiming. ‘All Our Yesterdays’ gives a sharp portrait of a society hungry for change, but betrayed by war.

Now I know why I got this book! Because of JacquiWine’s review (3rd review below). But I would recommend you read her review after you read the book...I feel there’s a fair amount of spoiler alert passages in her review. But it’s good!

Reviews:
• https://www.theguardian.com/books/202...
• https://www.theguardian.com/books/202...
• https://jacquiwine.wordpress.com/2022...

• A review by June Acocella on Natalia Ginzburg (interesting): https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/20...

[julieta · Rating 4 out of 5]

Cuando empecé a leer este libro hermoso, me desesperaba un poco el tono. Tiene algo como tan simple, que le da algo inocente que me molestaba.
Pero acabó conquistandome, quedé enamorada de Cenzo Rena, generoso y exagerado y de Anna, que soñaba con la revolución, de giuma, ipolito, de todos, así que, aunque el tono no haya cambiado, me encantó. Tiene además momentos preciosos, y está la guerra vivida desde Italia. Siempre que leo algo relacionado con la guerra me resulta incomprensible, y a la vez, quiero leer más.
Tenía además mucha curiosidad por leer a Ginzburg, a quien seguiré leyendo, porque tiene algo propio, y quiero saber si todos sus libros van en este tono o si cambia en otros.

[Cheryl · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is not the easiest book to read, and yet it is one of the most beautiful storytelling I've encountered in a while. A paragraph in this narrative could run across an entire page, sentences drag on with determined storytelling, time shifts, and in between all this is a focused narrative voice that is so confident of the story being told that it makes you a confident reader.

I closed this novel and recall the simple, but beautiful village, Borgo San Costanzo. I think of the farm house, Le Visciole. I remember the characters and their tenacity, how they grow up, find love, start families, and find their voices amid fascism and war. I think of the characters who worked with the resistance and I cannot imagine how it could have been for Natalia Ginzburg as she wrote this, she who lost a husband to Fascists because of his underground activities.

She had made love with [him] and she knew that he did not love her, she knew that he felt rather sad and humiliated after they had made love together, and she would have liked to go back to the times when they used to read Montale's poems and eat chestnuts, and the war was still a cold, distant war, the Germans hadn't won yet.

I hesitate to talk about the trajectory of Anna, the character who the reader follows as she navigates different worlds and different periods of her life because it would be spoilers. Yet her story is the one that elucidates pain and sacrifice; invisibility and powerlessness; fragility and naivety. If Anna is the foundation, Signora Maria is the glue. Signora Maria's character is a kind of symbol, as is Ippolito, the brother, Cenzo Rena, the family friend who they believe owns a castle, and Franz, the stepmother's ex-lover who marries the step-daughter. So many meaningful characters appear in this novel and they each play a role, that is, they appear with a defined purpose.

What does one do when faced with hopelessness? Who does one become during and after? This novel seems to be seeking the answers to these questions, or perhaps, it exists to blatantly show this. It is the story of a family trying to piece itself together, against the backdrop of a country falling apart. Ginzburg writes with the ease of someone who has nothing to prove and much to teach.

[Cláudia Azevedo · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Todos os Nossos Ontens" é um livro belíssimo, em que as histórias de diferentes famílias se cruzam, ao longo de anos, tendo como pano de fundo a Itália de Mussolini e a Segunda Guerra Mundial.
Anna, Censo Rena, Ippolito, a senhora Maria, Emilio, Giustino, Giuma e Maschioma são apenas algumas das personagens desta obra que me prendeu do princípio ao fim, numa ânsia de saber mais, de conhecer o desfecho de cada cena, de ver quem morria e quem vivia, quem se transformava ou nem por isso.
A densidade psicológica de grande parte destas personagens lembra-me Elena Ferrante. Confesso que a comparação é inevitável.
Toda a escrita de Natália Ginzburg é de uma enorme fluidez, nada é dito para além do necessário, arrastando-nos para dentro do enredo, enredando-nos. Mas é também de uma lição de história em que todos são humanos, heróis e carrascos em potência. Sejam judeus, fascistas, pobres ou poderosos, brigadieri ou partigiani, todos ocupam um lugar que não é necessariamente o que se poderia pensar ou mesmo desejar. São pessoas, afinal. Até porque há que contar com as doenças de então, como a disenteria ou o tifo. Um dos ensinamentos que sempre retiro deste tipo de literatura é a constatação de que a vida continua, sim, mesmo durante uma guerra. Continua não exatamente igual, como é óbvio, mas continua. E as pessoas seguem vivendo: amam-se, odeiam-se, crescem, diminuem, suicidam-se, equivocam-se.
Recomendo muito esta leitura. É uma lição de vida.

[Jan-Maat]

"The old world is dying, and the new world struggles to be born"

The internet tells me that those words are one of the top twenty-five quotes by Antonio Gramsci (1891-1937), and although he died about the same time as the action of this novel begins, those words summarise this strange multi-focal story of two intertwined North Italian upper middle class families, one the owners of a soap factory, the other of lawyers and accountants (and women who are neither lawyers nor accountants which you might regard as a lucky escape).

This is an extremely readable book, which came to me as a fun gift, but in its narrative style it doesn't conform to a familiar pattern, the omniscient narration hovers around a character for a while before moving on to another for a while. At first we are with the professional family but then Ginsburg spills over to the soap factory owners too. Ginsburg picks up a character and moves them forward through the story until perhaps she feels there is no further that they can go. She will move on to the next person, possibly letting the abandoned character die, maybe moving in a similar character to replace them.

I found all this curious and mysterious until I reached the beginning of the second part - about half way through the novel. There I noticed the piling up of imagery about death, a decaying town, a closed railway and the station master's house trashed, cupboards like coffins around a room's walls. Thinking back it was there slightly at the beginning of the first book, when we are told that a portrait of the deceased worried-looking mother presides over the table. It felt like a brief implosion of symbolism into this novel. Again Mir, in a comment on a update that I posted, suggested that a character's love of sleep sounded like depression; these are lives locked into a collective depression, even connecrion with others comes at the cost of betraying those you already know in thus novel I noticed another review picks upon the number of character who are physically malformed or have a poor impression of their own physique, and this tends in the same direction I think, of showing us a society under fascism that is a living death, and that the people who have to endure that regime are crippled physically or mentally by it, in addition to those who are imprisoned or in self-imposed exile to it. Two of the characters talk about politics in German, I suppose because at that point nobody had written Der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland , but they will become aware of the sentiment at least by the end of the tale. A subtle feature is the political atomisation that the characters face, they can hope for a different politics and society, but have no conceptual framework for it, literally no language. Ginzburg was to sit in the Italian Parliament as a communist and later an independent MP in addition to writing. And that politics informs the novel I guess.

All the time Ginzburg maintains a delightful off-hand tone that I felt achieves a fine comic effect. Eventually the war comes and we are caught up in the anxiety of unknowing as the conflict unfolds slowly and Italian soldiers disappear abroad.

I love the last few words of this novel, they reminded me a little of Candide the sense of an open life in front of the characters, that will be difficult, full of tasks that they don't now how to accomplish, but which will be free.

It didn't remind me of the four short stories that I had read by Ginzburg, but this is a relatively early work from her literary career.

[Marc Lamot · Rating 2 out of 5]

Life's but a walking shadow
Natalia Ginzburg presents a chronicle of two families living opposite each other, in a northern Italian town, one slightly impoverished, the other rich. It's the 1930s, the fascists of Mussolini are in power, a new war is casting its shadow, but Ginzburg focuses almost entirely on the banal vicissitudes of four youngsters from those families (with a few secondary figures next to them). She does this in a dry, detached style that merely records. Fathers die, the children go to school or start working in the factory (as laborers or as directors), they have friendships and successful or unsuccessful relationships: it is all told without emotion. Politics and the international situation certainly are present, but in the background.

It is only around the middle of the novel that the story starts to gain momentum, not coincidentally when the war really breaks out and the protagonists are pulled along. But even now the style remains sober and business-like, in a continuous stream of relatively short sentences, descriptive, without dialogues, and again with subdued emotion; not even when really dramatic things happen towards the end of the war. The main characters just undergo what is happening, barely understand what is going on, have no control over their lives.

I'm going to be honest: already after 30 pages I had the urge to close this book. The writing style and the lack of an intriguing story did not really encourage reading. But I persevered, and only after about 150 pages this novel began to speak. Not spectacularly, of course not, but still. This is strange: Ginzburg has ventured an experiment with only antiheroes, a family chronicle without passion or fireworks. It was only after some searching that I found the key: at the beginning, Ginzburg posted a quote from Shakespeare’s Macbeth, beginning with the words "and all our yesterdays", which refers to the title of this book. Curiously, it are the very cynical lines that follow this citation, and which she does not mention, that perfectly convey the meaning of this novel:
“Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
When you read this novel from that light, the endless, consecutive sentences begin to speak deafeningly. So, in the end I was captivated, but I can’t say it was a top read.
(rating 2.5 stars)

[Ellie Hamilton · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is a novel where the setting and main character is narrating through the authors memory and experience, the whole novel was really good at placing you in this setting. I'm definitely interested in more by this author x

[Katya]

Há um não sei quê de Virginia Woolf no trabalho de Natalia Ginzburg: seja um passo marcadamente repetitivo que ecoa os tempos de rame-rame da guerra; seja uma certa secura isenta de sentimentalismos vagos que caracteriza uma prosa realista e normalmente masculina.

Ginzburg é dura, seca, severa a descrever as batalhas da vida, da maioridade, da guerra. Todas são uma mesma luta, constante e repetitiva que retira e dá esperança consoante cada momento.

É em 1952 que Ginzburg, casada já pela segunda vez - o primeiro marido, Leone, judeu e combatente anti-fascista, foi também ele vítima dos nazis - publica esta nostálgica e pungente obra Todos Os Nossos Ontens, cuja atmosfera é intensa, palpitante, quente e fumarenta: a cada parágrafo sentimos adensar-se e aproximar-se um destino inevitável.

__
À mesa o pai esfregava as mãos e dizia que se houvesse Deus o deixaria viver até ao fim do fascismo, para poder publicar o seu livro e ver as caras das pessoas. Dizia que assim se saberia finalmente se existia ou não esse tal Deus, mas bem vistas as coisas inclinava se mais para que não, ou quem sabe, talvez existisse mas torcia por Mussolini.
17
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E quando esse destino chega, o sentimento opressivo que nos acompanha enovela-se dentro de nós sem dar tréguas. A quem quer que nos apeguemos ao longo da narrativa, nunca estamos realmente preparados para os perder - na ficção como na realidade...

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Emanuele despegava do rádio apenas para correr a casa de Ippolito a dar-lhe as notícias. Mas a guerra continuava longe, na Polónia, a Itália não se mexia e Emanuele não sabia o que pensar, dizia que se a Itália não entrasse na guerra o fascismo nunca mais cairia. Mas Ippolito dizia-lhe que agora já não tinha importância saber se o fascismo cairia ou não. Porque na Polónia morria gente, todos os dias morria gente de um lado e do outro, enquanto ele e Emanuele estavam sentados a falar no terraço e a senhora Maria procurava açúcar pela cidade.
76
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A guerra de Ginzburg oblitera vidas, oblitera sentimentos, oblitera a própria vontade de viver e de acordar pela manhã ou deitar pela noite. A sua narrativa é esgotante e instila o medo de nos vermos perante semelhante situação onde nada é preto ou branco. Apenas é.

No fim fica uma nostalgia pelo passado, um receio pelo presente, uma esperança pelo futuro.


Deixo as suas impressionantes palavras no ensaio “My Vocation” (1949)*:

When we are happy our imagination is stronger; when we are unhappy our memory works with greater vitality. Suffering makes the imagination weak and lazy. A particular sympathy grows up between us and the characters we invent—that our debilitated imagination is still just able to invent—a sympathy that is tender and almost maternal, warm and damp with tears, intimately physical and stifling. We are deeply, painfully rooted in every being and thing in the world, the world which has become filled with echoes and trembling and shadows, to which we are bound by a devout and passionate pity. Then we risk foundering on a dark lake of stagnant, dead water, and dragging our mind’s creations down with us, so that they are left to perish among dead rats and rotting flowers in a dark, warm whirlpool.


*"My vocation", in Little Virtues, Skyhorse Publishing

[Gabrielė || book.duo · Rating 3 out of 5]

Jaučiausi šiek tiek apgauta knygos anotacijos – skaitydama ją tikėjausi, kad kūrinys suksis apie Aną ir jos gyvenimą, nėštumą ir to nešamus klausimus, problemas ir nepatogumus karo akivaizdoje, bet gavau kai ką kito. Pirma kūrinio pusė įtraukė, buvo įdomu pažinti visą puokštę įvairiausių ir tikrai ryškių veikėjų, ir nors nesu didelė knygų apie karą (ar pasakojimų karo fone) gerbėja, čia tos aplinkybės pasirodė įpintos įdomiai, neužgožiančiai ir tik papildančiai veikėjų gyvenimus.

Tačiau kūriniui įsibėgėjant ėmiau nuobodžiauti. Anos čia radau mano skoniui per mažai, buvo tarsi bandoma papasakoti apie visus veikėjus, bet nė į vieną nepasigilinama labiau, todėl kai kur pasirodė, kad autorė plaukia paviršiumi, nors medžiagos pasikapstyti giliau čia buvo apstu. O antra kūrinio pusė, kai persikeliama į kitą veiksmo vietą, tą nuobodulį tik sustiprino. Čia man pasirodė per daug kasdienių kaimo reikalų, kurie nebuvo itin įdomūs ar kuom nors pažįstami, per daug pasikartojimo, per mažai kažkokio kitimo. Ne itin rūpėjo, kaip sekasi veikėjams, nes kažkodėl nesugėbėjau prie jų prisirišti. Ir nors autorės stilius patiko, visgi suvokiau, kad tema ne mano ir todėl negaliu dėt šios knygos prie favoričių lentynos – nieko labai blogo joje neradau, džiaugiausi vertimu ir gražia proza, bet kažko daugiau pasiimti irgi nepavyko. Gaila, nes lūkesčius buvau visai užsikėlusi, bet tai turbūt tik dar vienas priminimas, kad kartais geriau į knygą nerti nieko nežinant ir nesileisti apgaunamai anotacijų.

[Baz · Rating 5 out of 5]

Keeping it brief. I loved it, it’s as brilliant as all her other work. The narrative bursts in the opening lines with great energy and purpose and it swept me along, mesmerized and hooked on Ginzburg’s singular narrative style, and it was only toward the end of the novel, when I was hit with a stunning blow to the chest, did I realize its impact, and just how invested I was in these characters’ lives.

Ginzburg’s a magnificent writer with the power to devastate, and she wielded that power to masterful effect here. I’m happy to know that fiction can still astonish and overwhelm me. An extraordinary experience – not only a top read of my year, but a highlight in my reading life to date.

[Nora|KnyguDama · Rating 4 out of 5]

Kokia graži ši knyga. Kokia rami, o tuo pačiu kalbanti apie itin sudėtingus dalykus. Kaip puikiai išversta. Tai pirmoji mano pažintis su žydų kilmės rašytoja Natalia Ginzburg, bet labai tikiuosi, kad ne paskutinė.

Ji čia kalba apie Antrojo pasaulinio karo įžangą ir įvykių verpete besisukančius paprastus gyvenimus. Gyvenimus, kuriuose netrūksta ne tokių globalių, bet vis dėlto bėdų. Netrūksta skausmo, praradimų, pavydo, paslapčių, tiek jaunų, tiek vyresnių žmonių problemų. Šiaurės Italijoje, toje pačioje gatvėje gyvena dvi šeimos. Viena pasiturinti, kita nelabai. Abiejose šeimose yra vaikų ir paauglių, kurie per tvorą susidraugauja. Žaidžia, rezga sąmokslus, dalinasi paslaptimis, lyg ir įsimyli, bet nelabai. Ir taip Ana pastoja. Pastojusi išsikelia iš gimtųjų namų ir pradeda dar keistesnį gyevnimą, karo baisumams jau įsisiautėjus.

Knyga labai įdomi ir greit skaitosi. Užliūlioja ta šeimyninė rutina, ir nors žinai, kad fone karas - vis tiek labiau pergyveni dėl kasdieninių rūpesčių ir jausmų. Čia lyg ir nėra pagrindinių veikėjų - visi svarbūs, visų gyevnimai aptariami, visų gaila, ar bent jau visiems kažką jauti. Man atrodo, kad labai sunku parašyt knygą apie kasdienybę, be didelių plot twistų ar įvykių, ir padaryt, kad ji vis tiek prikaustytų. Ginzburg tai pavyko išties puikiai. Tik nesupratrau vieno - kodėl knygos pradžioje, įžangoje, kuri apkalba kūrinį yra išduodamos net kelios siužeto detalės, kurių tikrai nereikėjo žinot iki skaitant knygą. Toks spoileris visiškas. Tad kas imsit skaityt, įžangą pasilikite pabaigai.

[Rita da Nova]

«Creio que Todos os Nossos Ontens entra na categoria de livros que ficam connosco muito depois de os lermos, e cuja opinião se solidifica e melhora com o passar do tempo. Digo isto porque a escrita, ao contrário da que experienciei em Foi Assim é pouco fluída e bastante telegráfica, com algumas repetições que dificultam a concentração. Ao início pode ser mais difícil de entrar, mas prometo que se vão apaixonar pelas personagens e depois fica mais simples de acompanhar.»

Podem saber mais em: https://ritadanova.blogs.sapo.pt/todo....

[Annelies · Rating 4 out of 5]

Dit is, naast Family lexicon, het tweede boek van Natalia Ginzburg dat ik lees. Ik houd wel van die achteloze en lichtvoetige humoristische stijl van haar. Toch behandelt zij zware thema's. Hier schetst ze het wel en wee van een onorthodoxe italiaanse familie tijdens het facisme in italië en de daaropvolgende oorlog. Haar humor laat ze nooit achterwege, ingrijpende gebeurtenissen omhult zij liever met stilte. Haar redeneringen lijken vaak rechttoe-rechtaan en er zit vaart in het verhaal. Nodigt uit om nog meer van haar te lezen.

[Misha · Rating 5 out of 5]

“And no one knew what was in store for the dead, he said, perhaps nothing at all but perhaps, on the other hand, there was something, probably a great boredom, he said, a deathly boredom.”

There are books in your reading life which stand out. All Our Yesterdays is an addition to that list for me. It will sound crazy but this is a book I wish I could eat up and consume whole.

All Our Yesterdays by Natalia Ginzburg (translated by Angus Davidson) follows the fates of two Italian families over the period of World War II. Ginzburg's first husband was tortured and murdered by the Fascist regime for his involvement with an anti-fascist newspaper. One cannot imagine the devastating pain that involves, and yet this book written about that very same period celebrates life in all its nuances, both joy and pain. There is so much life in Ginzburg's writing. Her humour while capturing the absurdities involved in families, the eccentricities of every character, the insightful observations on human and familial connections. Ginzburg doesn't tend to explicitly describe emotions and yet you feel so much - the warmth, the tenderness, the fear, the loss. 

The evocative human way in which she describes living through war. How it can feel surreal at first. You continue to laugh, cry, grieve in ordinary ways. Then when the war is right next door, you continue to laugh, cry, grieve, except the grieving becomes an endless thing. Grieving for 'all the yesterdays', the memories you can't recall, the finer details lost to time and reality. Grieving for all the people whom you have passionately hated and loved. Then there is an intangible grieving that transcends words.

I want to hug this book and keep it next to me all my life. I was in tears towards the end almost as if I couldn't let go of these vivid characters, every pathetic one of them so alive and dear to me. For me, this is certainly a book of a lifetime.

[Jeroen Vandenbossche · Rating 4 out of 5]

Dopo Lessico famigliare, questo è solo il secondo libro di Natalia Ginzburg che ho letto e la considero già come uno degli scrittori più interessanti del secondo dopoguerra italiano (a lei non piaceva la forma femminile “scrittrice”). I suoi romanzi si distinguono innanzitutto per la cruda ma autentica umanità delle storie e lo stile ingannevolmente semplice ma molto sottile con cui affronta i temi più complessi: l’amore, l’amicizia, l’adolescenza, la morte, il suicidio, il tradimento, la politica, la guerra.

Tutti i nostri ieri dimostra anche la grande maestria narrativa di Ginzburg.

Il romanzo racconta la storia di due famiglie di vicini di casa. Da una parte, c’è la famiglia di Anna, Concettina, Ippolito e Giustino, quattro giovani che perdono i loro genitori all’inizio della storia. Dall’altra parte, c’è la famiglia proprietaria di una fabbrica di sapone con “mammina” e i figli Emanuele, Giuma e la rossa Amelia. Una folla di altri personaggi interagisce con questi protagonisti. Attraverso questi vari personaggi, il romanzo mette in scena tutta la società italiana degli anni Trenta e Quaranta: il Nord come il Mezzogiorno, la borghesia intraprendente, le classi medie e i contadini, i fascisti, la resistenza e la gente che prova di navigare il conflitto evitando di schierarsi. Il narratore (la narratrice?) di Tutti i nostri ieri passa da un personaggio all’altro in un modo molto fluido, quasi come una farfalla che va da un albero all’altro. Così, evita la narrazione psicologizzante e focalizza invece sull’intreccio delle vite dei personaggi. Anche se il tono è ovviamente molto diverso, Tutti i nostri ieri mi ha ricordato un po' Middlemarch di George Eliot, nel senso che si concentra sulla comunità piuttosto che sull'individuo isolato.

Anche la cesura a circa metà del libro, quando Anna si trasferisce nel Mezzogiorno per viverci lontana dalla sua famiglia, contribuisce elegantemente alla storia, sottolineando come gli eventi storici possono sconvolgere la vita quotidiana e le comunità consolidate. Devo ammettere che ero un po’ disorientato me stesso leggendo i primi capitoli della seconda parte: proprio come Anna, mi domandavo che cosa fosse successo con tutti gli altri. La separazione di Anna della sua famiglia e dei suoi amici durante gli anni di guerra permette anche a Ginzburg di concludere il suo racconto su una nota proustiana quando i personaggi si rendono conto, dopo la loro riunione, quanto sono tutti invecchiati.

Parlando di tecnica narrativa, un’altra cosa che mi ha attirato l’attenzione è l’uso quasi costante, attraverso tutto il romanzo, dello stile indiretto libero. Non ci sono quasi dialoghi nel libro e anche l’uso del discorso indiretto è scarso. Invece di riprodurre o di parafrasare quello che si dicono i personaggi, la narratrice di Tutti i nostri ieri sceglie una via di mezzo: racconta quello che si dicono i personaggi usando le loro stesse parole. Ecco un esempio casuale, dove ho sottolineato i passaggi in discorso indiretto libero:

“Quando poteva lasciare mammina Emanuele tornava a studiare con Ippolito sulla terrazza, e Ippolito gli diceva che ormai era un capo, e sdegnava i poveri amici senza quattrini, e la fabbrica di sapone era sua, era sua la fabbrica di sapone , della terrazza gliela indicava col braccio teso, ma Emanuele si copriva gli occhi con le mani e non voleva guardare. Sarebbe andato a lavorare alla fabbrica dopo la laurea, perché l’aveva promesso a suo padre, ma non aveva voglia di lavorare lí dentro, Dio sa cosa avrebbe dato per lavorare altrove.”

Ovviamente questa tecnica non è nuova e sappiamo che anche Flaubert, fra tanti altri, l’usava molto spesso. In Tutti i nostri ieri l’uso costante del discorso indiretto libero contribuisce alla fluidità della narrazione che non è mai interrotto da dialoghi. Permette anche alla narratrice di far sentire la voce dei suoi personaggi, rispettando il loro modo di esprimersi. Nello stesso tempo, il discorso dei personaggi non si fa mai sentire direttamente. Integrandolo nel suo proprio discorso, la narratrice lo mantiene a una distanza infime ma mai colmata. In questo modo, evita ogni traccia di pathos e conferisce alla narrazione il suo tipico tono smorzato.

Per farla breve, leggete Tutti i nostri ieri! È non solo una bella storia, ma una vera e proprio masterclass di narrazione.

[Pedro · Rating 4 out of 5]

Una novela sorprendente.
Ginzburg pone su mirada de narradora en Anna, la más pequeña de una familia de cuatro hijos cuya madre ha fallecido. Anna no tiene mucha iniciativa ni se destaca por nada en especial; parece que su vida va transcurriendo según la dirección de los vientos. Por momentos la mirada se pone en otro de los varios personajes que aparecen en su vida, en general con perfiles más llamativos, pero todo gira en torno a Anna.
Los tiempos son difíciles: el período en que el nazismo avanzaba sobre el continente bajo la indiferencia de Italia (y de Anna, aunque no de varios de sus allegados), el período en que la guerra se trasladó a Italia, y en la última etapa, la postguerra.
Y todo esto contado con una enorme calidad literaria que hace de esta novela una lectura muy grata y profunda.

[Jorge · Rating 3 out of 5]

Con un nombre hermoso y evocador esta novela va dejando atrás poco a poco todos los ayeres de todos aquellos personajes con los que prácticamente convivimos durante más de 300 páginas. Todos ellos viven vidas ordinarias en un entorno difícil y la autora tiene la virtud de hacerlos muy humanos, muy cercanos a nosotros y lo hace con una sencillez y una simplicidad que roza lo candoroso.
La novela se desarrolla en varias poblaciones de Italia durante los años 30 y 40 del siglo XX en pleno auge del Fascismo que incluye los años anteriores a la Segunda Guerra Mundial y hasta el final de ésta.
Natalia Ginzburg (1916-1991) tiene una prosa que despliega un discreto encanto y una sencillez extrema que se asemeja a una especie de brillante oleaje semiparalizado; para mi gusto le falta algo de fuerza y dinamismo a su prosa, en especial para el relato largo como lo es éste.

Creo que lo que más disfrute fuer el marco histórico y la creación de sus personajes: Concettina, Giustino, el excéntrico y noble Cenzo Rena, la siempre discreta Anna, Giuma con sus dudas y los tumbos que da por la vida, el resuelto mártir Ippolito, el cojo e indeciso Emanuele, la pelirroja Amalia, la siempre servicial señora María, el vacilante Danilo, el sargento de San Constanzo y muchos más que le dan vida a la novela.

[Alma · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Estavam fechadas as portadas no quarto do pai: e lembrou-se de repente de quando ele abria com estrépito de par em par as portadas e ficava a olhar a manhã, e ensaboava o queixo com o pincel estendendo o pescoço magro, e lhe dizia: - Vai-me comprar tabaco. Torna-te útil visto que não és agradável. E pareceu-lhe vê-lo com as suas calças de flanela branca, com as pernas compridas um pouco tortas porque em novo tinha andado muito a cavalo. E perguntou a si mesma onde estaria agora o pai. Ela acreditava no inferno, no purgatório e no paraíso, e pensou que agora o pai devia estar no purgatório, a arrepender-se das coisas más que tinha dito tantas vezes, sobretudo quando atormentava Ippolito por causa do tabaco e do cão; e quem sabe como estaria surpreendido por ver que havia purgatório, ele que tinha dito tantas vezes que quase de certeza não há nada para os mortos, e é melhor assim porque, pelo menos, finalmente pode dormir-se, ele que dormia sempre tão mal."

[Silvia · Rating 5 out of 5]

Storia familiare portata alla vita dalla scrittura piana e profonda della Ginzburg, un nodo di sentimenti, situazioni e rancori sullo sfondo doloroso del fascismo e delle sue conseguenze. Rileggere I libri della Ginzburg è una necessità che riempie la mia anima.

[Ief Stuyvaert · Rating 4 out of 5]

Er is een groot verschil tussen een boek dat nu geschreven wordt en je meeneemt naar een tijd die je nooit gekend hebt (bij uitbreiding: de schrijver ook niet) en een boek dat geschreven is in die tijd en je dus onderdompelt in het heden van dat moment.

'Al onze gisterens' werd geschreven in 1953.

Is het daardoor dat de schrijfstijl zo onbestemd aandoet?

Soms lijkt het meer op een feitelijk verslag dan op een roman, een koortsige reconstructie van een micro-universum in een uiteenvallende wereld, als houvast - dan weer neemt introspectie de boventoon.

Maar altijd, altijd is er de humor.

Personages lopen hun tragische ondergang tegemoet en je kunt een glimlach niet onderdrukken. Om vervolgens toch een krop te moeten wegslikken.

Natalia Ginzburg sleurt je 80 jaar terug in de tijd naar een periode en een plaats die we niet kennen.

Toch lijkt het alsof het een van onze gisterens is.

[D · Rating 5 out of 5]

Beautiful and intricate story, with a large cast of interesting, sometimes comical, characters. The period stretches from the early signs of WWII until the early post-liberation period. The characters are taken from all 'classes': destitute peasants in the South as well as factory owners and 'professionals'. As always with this author, the style is perfect: matter of fact, precise sentences and fast paced. What's not to like? See also this review.

[David Carrasco · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Y todos nuestros ayeres han alumbrado a los necios
el camino hacia la polvorienta muerte." - Macbeth, William Shakespeare

¿En qué momento exacto se acaba la infancia?

No cuando uno sopla las velas de un cumpleaños ni cuando empieza a ganarse la vida. No es un instante claro, sino una serie de pequeños derrumbes, de despertares incómodos. Todos nuestros ayeres, de Natalia Ginzburg, es una novela sobre ese punto sin retorno en el que la vida deja de ser un ensayo y empieza de verdad. ¿Y cómo empieza en el mundo de Ginzburg? Como un tren descarrilando a cámara lenta: no puedes apartar la mirada y sabes que nada volverá a ser igual.

Norte de Italia, cerca de Turín. Los años previos a la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Anna es una niña cuando la conocemos. No una heroína ni una chica particularmente lista o especial. Solo una niña que observa y calla, que pasa de puntillas por una casa ruidosa donde los adultos hablan de política y los hermanos mayores y sus amigos fuman y hacen grandes planes para cuando llegue la revolución. Está su hermana Concettina, con su insolencia y su desdén por la familia. Su hermano Giustino, el más cercano a su edad, aunque tan distinto a ella. Está Ippolito, el hermano serio, el que estudia y parece que va a llegar lejos. La señora María, la amiga de la abuela a la que las circunstancias han convertido en abuela y madre de todos ellos, siempre rondando por la casa con su tarea de mantenerlo todo en su sitio. Y está la casa de enfrente, con el señor mayor, la mammina, Giuma y sus juguetes.

Y, claro, está la guerra, que aún no ha empezado pero que ya está ahí, acechando en las conversaciones, en los periódicos, en las desapariciones silenciosas de ciertos conocidos. Ginzburg no necesita decirnos que la guerra lo cambiará todo. No la pone en primer plano, no la convierte en la gran protagonista, pero está en cada gesto, en cada silencio. Es un telón de fondo que no se impone, pero lo cubre todo.

La novela avanza con esa sensación tan propia de Ginzburg de que el tiempo se nos escurre sin que nos demos cuenta. Y de repente, Anna deja de ser una niña. Su casa ya no es su casa, los rostros familiares empiezan a desdibujarse, y su vida toma un rumbo inesperado. Entra en escena Cenzo Rena, un hombre bueno, de esos cuya bondad no necesita adornos ni discursos. No es un héroe, ni un salvador, solo alguien que hace lo correcto cuando todo a su alrededor se desmorona. Su presencia cambia el curso de la historia de una forma que no se ve venir, de esa manera sutil y contundente con la que Ginzburg maneja el destino de sus personajes. En un mundo que se vuelve cada vez más incierto, su honestidad se siente como un ancla: la prueba de que, incluso en tiempos oscuros, todavía hay gente capaz de sostener a otros sin pedir nada a cambio. Pero esta no es una historia de pasiones ni de grandes gestos. Aquí nadie sube corriendo una escalera para declarar su amor ni muere en un duelo por honor. Es una historia de movimientos silenciosos, de decisiones que parecen insignificantes hasta que, de pronto, lo han cambiado todo.

Ginzburg escribe con una economía de medios brutal. Su prosa es directa, pero lo que parece austero en la superficie está cargado de matices. Es como si sus frases contuvieran más de lo que dicen, como si detrás de cada línea hubiera un abismo de cosas no dichas. Gran parte de la novela está escrita en estilo indirecto e indirecto libre, lo que significa que los pensamientos de los personajes se funden con la narración sin marcadores evidentes. Esto crea una cercanía extraña: no estamos viendo la historia desde fuera, pero tampoco dentro de la cabeza de nadie en particular. Estamos en una especie de limbo, un lugar perfecto para una historia que trata, precisamente, sobre la pérdida de control sobre el propio destino. Veamos por ejemplo este fragmento:

”Concettina de repente apoyó la cabeza sobre la mesa y rompió en sollozos. Emanuele se puso en pie alarmado y trató de consolarla, le preguntaba si realmente había sido para ella algo tan serio, si de verdad se había enamorado un poco. Concettina sacudió enérgicamente la cabeza, no se había enamorado, no sabía siquiera ella misma por qué lloraba tanto. Emanuele le dijo que él también estaba muy triste y tampoco sabía bien por qué. Como ella, él se había quedado mal al ver a Danilo tan cambiado, con aquel sombrero de fieltro duro y aquel aire de persona sensata, lo prefería cuando llevaba boina y se pasaba las horas muertas delante de la verja. Pero tampoco había motivo para llorar, a Concettina le iban a salir todavía muchos más novios y olvidaría a Danilo, era natural que hubiera fantaseado y alimentado sueños a costa de Danilo porque estaba preso, de pronto lo había visto como a un héroe, era una cosa natural y que no tenía nada de trágico.”

Este recurso es característico de novelistas como Flaubert, Woolf o Joyce, y es especialmente útil en novelas de corte psicológico o intimista, donde lo importante no es solo lo que pasa, sino cómo lo viven los personajes. "Lo prefería cuando llevaba boina y se pasaba las horas muertas delante de la verja."Aquí, la narración se mezcla con el pensamiento de Emanuele sin una transición explícita. Y ese es el truco de Ginzburg: su estilo es un reflejo de lo que viven sus personajes. Todo parece suceder con naturalidad, sin anuncios, sin un punto exacto en el que las cosas cambian, hasta que de repente ya es demasiado tarde.

Y así, sin que nos demos cuenta, la guerra por fin estalla. No con grandes escenas de batallas ni discursos inflamados. Llega como todo llega en esta novela: con gente tomando decisiones apresuradas, con huidas torpes, con cartas sin respuesta, con silencios. No hay heroísmo, solo supervivencia. La guerra no es la protagonista, pero lo atraviesa todo: es la razón por la que se cierran las puertas, por la que la gente desaparece, por la que la vida, poco a poco, se desmorona sin hacer demasiado ruido.

Todos nuestros ayeres no es un libro que busque impactar con giros de guion ni con dramatismos. Su golpe es más silencioso y, por lo mismo, más duradero y más conmovedor. Ginzburg nos muestra la guerra no desde la trinchera, sino desde la cocina, desde las habitaciones a medio recoger, desde las cartillas de racionamiento y la verdura hervida o la carne de carnero viejo. Y es ahí donde radica su verdadera fuerza: “Pero Ippolito dijo que la guerra no era como ellos se creían, seguían pasando las cosas de todos los días solo que con cortinas negras en las ventanas, seguían los cines, los teatros y las exposiciones caninas. Solo que con cortinas negras en las ventanas.”

Cierras el libro y te das cuenta de que lo que acabas de leer no es solo una historia sobre la guerra o sobre una familia italiana. Es la historia de cómo el tiempo nos arrastra sin preguntarnos, de cómo crecemos sin darnos cuenta, de cómo todo cambia y, cuando miramos atrás, apenas podemos reconocer lo que fuimos. Todos nuestros ayeres es un título perfecto, porque cuando terminamos de leer, entendemos que lo único que nos queda, al final, son los rastros de lo que alguna vez tuvimos.

Y cuando terminas la última página, te das cuenta de que Ginzburg no te ha contado una historia, sino que te ha metido dentro de ella. Ha construido un mundo con palabras mínimas, con silencios, con detalles que parecen inofensivos hasta que, de repente, te das cuenta de que te han dejado sin aliento. Como bien lo resume Carmen Martín Gaite en la contraportada de mi edición: “Una niña. Una familía. Otra familia. Una casa enfrente de otra. Mirar la casa de uno desde la casa de enfrente. Los hermanos. Los novios de la hermana. Un padre que escribe sus memorias. El fascismo. El amante de la madre. Las amigas. Los panfletos clandestinos. La política. La policía. La cárcel. El miedo. El amor y el desamor. Teñir los trajes para el luto. Ir al cine. Los besos. Matrimonio y embarazo. La guerra. Los alemanes entran en Francia. Leer a Marx. Leer a Montale. El miedo. El hoy, el mañana. Todos los ayeres. La vida en voz baja. Natalia Ginzburg. Una novela. Una escritura sustantiva. Una frase que construye un párrafo. Un párrafo que construye una imagen o un acto. Actos que construyen una vida. Muchas vidas. Sobrecoge. Sin aspavientos. Una novela.”

Después de leer esa descripción impecable, solo queda una opción: abrir el libro y vivirlo. Porque si algo nos enseña Ginzburg es que el tiempo no espera a nadie. Y antes de que te des cuenta, Todos nuestros ayeres serán también los tuyos.

[Marta Silva · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5 ⭐️

Apesar das suas personagens tristonhas, algumas fastidiosas e outras até desajustadas, gostei desta narrativa.
No início, tive de contrariar o meu comportamento pouco empático face aos protagonistas e apreciar a leitura, especialmente a partir da segunda parte, quando, na minha opinião, se torna mais interessante.
É uma autora a quem quero voltar.

[Anna · Rating 3 out of 5]

All Our Yesterdays is definitely an accomplished novel, yet somehow I find myself with very little to say about it. The setting is Fascist rural Italy before and during the Second World War; the narrative follows a teenage girl called Anna and her family. The pace is dilatory although there are some vivid scenes, especially towards the end. Perhaps reading it during a weekend break after having my brain blasted by In the Country of Last Things diminished its impact? Or maybe I just wasn't in the right mood to do it justice. I could tell intellectually that it was a good novel, yet did not feel it. The run-on sentences reminded me of Elena Ferrante, but somehow they didn't carry the same emotional weight as hers. Nonetheless, I appreciated the treatment of war and ideology:

He said that Emanuele, when he himself was on the point of going off to Russia, had made an angry scene with him, he was too young to be called up and could have stayed at home, and instead of that he was going as a volunteer to fight in a fascist war, he was going to help the fascists not lose this war of theirs, because he had perhaps believed all that rubbish about his country that fascism taught in the schools. But there wasn't a grain of truth in it, said Giustino, he had never dreamed of loving his country, he had never thought of any country whatever when he was at the war, firing at the enemy. Moreover, none of the men that were with him did think about it. Nor did anyone ever remember that it was against the Russians they were firing. It was just firing, neither for anybody nor against anybody, just firing with your feet like pieces of ice in your boots, and with your eyes dazzled by the snow. When he went away he had simply wanted to know what sort of a thing war was.

All Our Yesterdays very probably deserves more than three stars; my rating reflects my experience of it rather than the book's inherent qualities. I found the examination of war much more compelling than the family drama, which orbited around Anna while leaving her mostly an enigma.

[Madhuri · Rating 4 out of 5]

Reading Natalia Ginzburg felt like watching a neo-realist movie by De-Sica. Despite being placed in the backdrop of the war (1939-44), it is still focused on the life of people, and keeps itself slightly distant from political agendas. Instead, you are forced to know individual characters, understand their worldview, even sympathize with their stupidities.
All our yesterdays is about the children of two neighboring families - one of them rich and owner of a factory, the other not so well to do. In their adolescent years, the children find themselves in a Fascist regime and in a country which decides to go to the war on Germany's side. In the excitement of youth, two of these children begin to prepare for a revolution, which soon fizzles out. As their adults die or become preoccupied with the oncoming war, these children spend idle hours going astray, unhurried and unconcerned about their studies.
Things change, and the youngest girl, Anna, is married to an old family friend with whom she moves to a poor village in South Italy. The life in this village is drawn in plain strokes by Ginzburg, and it is easy to see that it is a vastly different world from the town of Anna's growing up. It is here that war becomes a reality, and the writer makes us come face to face with the dangers and concerns of common Italian people. People who do not support Fascism and thus often celebrate Italian and German defeats against the English.
The writing is often minimalist, though not excessively so. The story is told by a narrator, who does not involve itself very much with dialogues, but does sketch feelings in rough outlines. With minimalism, Ginzburg is able to weave in many characters and events into the story. There are several deaths of various kinds, and each of the children grows up in a different manner, finding own ways of dealing with the changes. The several characters with their own forms of cowardice and heroism and their own voices ('lived and died a Socialist') make this book a very interesting read. The character of Anna, placed at the center seems most unformed as she drifts along life, but is also quite realistic.
This is one of the plainest war novels that I have read with few tortures, fewer gunshots and even lesser bomb attacks, and yet with a simple paucity of lemons and carefully guarded cellars, the author makes the pinch of war felt.

[Claire · Rating 5 out of 5]

After reading a few shorter excellent novellas by Natalia Ginzburg, The Dry Heart, Valentino, Sagittarius, the memoir Family Lexicon and the essays The Little Virtues, I was looking forward to this substantial 418 page novel that spans the lead up to WWII, the war era and finishes just as they are liberated by the English.

It is not a war novel, but a brilliant depiction of two Italian families, neighbours who live opposite each in a Northern town, and everyone they are connected to, everyone who enters their home - what they live through during this era, how they keep tabs on each other, the dilemmas they face, how they deal with them, their tragedies and accomplishments, their loves and losses.

Very early on, the main family, who have already lost their mother, lose their somewhat tyrannical but fiercely ant-fascist father, so it is also about how the family of young adults continue, without parental guidance, amid the pressures of an oncoming war.

I could not put it down and although there isn't exactly a plot, there is this close attention to this small entwined community, which in the second part moves to the village of San Costanzo, when the 16 year old daughter Anna moves there for safety, under the wing of the older family friend Cenzo Rena, who is like an unofficial leader in their village, always helping people out, comforting them, helping find solutions, befriending everyone.

Highlighted passages the entire way through.

Highly Recommended.