This is the genre of non-fiction I tolerate (and even enjoy) most. The kind where a charismatic author tells her life story and in it, teaches you something valuable. Eve and Joan do this wonderfully. In the end, this is a book about identity, and not just lengthy language lectures.

Because of this closeness between the writer and what they write about, the choice of words is special. And in this case, being written in a novel language, the writing has a childlike, unguarded quality. This writer cannot dig through a 40 year old scrabble bag of vocabulary, and pick one that describes precisely what she feels. She has a smaller more innocent pool of knowledge. So her descriptions are simplistic, and often very visual. To explain complicated lessons she has learnt about language and identity, she provides very pretty, powerful, and passionate little metaphors.

There’s a lot of anthropomorphising languages, Italy, words even. Like she’ll say that reading Italian is more intimate than reading in English, more intense, because “we know each other less well”. Or: “When i forget what a word means, I feel as though I’ve left it behind”. It’s simple, but effective.

She talks about her Italian and her English like they’re children. One strong and confident, a little bit of a bully. The other is weak, and timid. (If you ask me that has Esau and Jacob vibes). She wants to care for the shy younger baby. Tend to it when it cries. I think for me, that comes out in my own personality. Carlotta says in English I’m more passionate, and aggressive. I often think the more talkative the human, the less they are seen as kind. (I have bored azia to death with my theories). But my English side is just less limited. I can say even kinder things. Thinking before you speak prevents mean thoughts coming out, yes, but also compliments. I love giving those.

I want to tell you about my time with this book. But whatever insights I have, about my experience learning Italian, or even my experience reading this book, they are far better described by Lahiri. That makes the task of this review a little sad. Do I just let her work speak for itself? But then, every opinion I have ever had has been better stated by someone else, because expression is not my forte. Or rather, quantity of expression is, but not quality. Forming the thought itself is the fun part for me I think. Do you read my words for the eve opinion? Or the eve experience? I should be writing this review in Italian.

I scribbled some Italian thoughts in pencil:

“Il problema è, leggendo questo libro, che io non sono a questo livello. Penso che questo libro sia scritto per gente che conoscono l’italiano, per spiegare e descrivere l’esperienza di imparare a scrivere in una nuova lingua. Ma per me, non riesco a prendere lo stesso di questo libro perché lo sto leggendo in una lingua sconosciuta.”

“The problem is, reading this book, that I’m not at this level. I think this book was written for people who know Italian, to explain and describe the experience of learning to write in a new language. But I can’t take as much away from this book because I am reading it in a foreign language.”

I felt so … seen (cringe) by this book. It’s a story I very much relate to. One thing in particular she said got me, as I walked between the yellow and red tube lines. She writes:  “Io ho bisogno del italiano, ma […] la lingua non avra mai bisogno di me”. I need this language to surive, to get about, to fulfil me, but the Italian language will never need me. Ouchie. So true so tragic. Such a low level constant melancholic sentiment.

Her fears are my fears. I, like her, feel as though I am letting myself down when I choose to take the easy path and speak English when I could speak Italian. I won’t have the opportunity to speak this language forever. When I leave the country for just a few days, or English friends come to visit, I swear it’s leaving me quickly. I return to work and the Italian child who had learn to crawl then walk on its little legs is now limping. It sat on a chair for too long and now it has stiff legs. Or pins and needles.

Another thing in common. A different, and somewhat lost first language. My mum taught me French. Baby me spoke French. And it is sad, just like Lahiri points out, that my most visceral language, the one I feel most often in, is not the same as my mother’s. That she is raising three children who (despite having been through a French education system) experience the world predominantly in a language she had to struggle through. That feels foreign and sad to her. That doesn’t feel like home. Like aw 🙁 And my mum probably feels the same about Arabic and her own mother.

My sisters tease me about my bad French. As though I wanted to lose it. At the age of 15 maybe I did, but I didn’t have a great concept of consequences at 15. I’m not too happy about it, and maybe that’s why Italian appeals to me. A judgment free way of getting back to a similar linguistic root.

We differ in very few ways in our linguistic experiences. One is that Jhumpa seems to have a little bit of an unfriendly relationship with her English. She resents it for undermining her Italian, she feels it brings her to write lazily. I don’t feel this way. My English is a huge privilege firstly. Plus a British accent does wonders abroad. And I feel I’ve collected some nice words. A way to talk about such specificities. It also helps me to enjoy some top notch tv and music.

Some people feel that speaking in a foreign language highlights their difficulties with it. Carlotta for example told me she doesn’t like to speak English in front of native speakers. It makes some people feel less than the others in the room. To me, it feels like the opposite. Speaking Italian gives me a cover. Like what I’m saying only sounds stupid because I’m saying it in a foreign language, and not because what I’m actually saying is stupid. I can speak my foolish thoughts, and get away with them with grace.

Overall fantastic read HIGHLY recommend to any Italian speakers, or any bilinguals. I scribbled so much crap over the pages, so I’m sure I had more to say, but my handwriting on the crowded M3 line stinks like poo.