The Letters from Capri, as this book was titled when first published in English, is a fascinating novel. Old-fashioned in some respects (it was published 1954), it is nevertheless a deeply complex, sensual, and intelligent exploration of sexual obsession that remains worth reading. A huge international success in its time (it even won Italy’s most prestigious literary prize) it is unjustly forgotten today - as is, actually, most of Mario Soldati’s writing oeuvre. His movies (he was also a director) are better remembered, but thankfully, France has republished many of his books in new translations. The Letters from Capri, set in Italy in the immediate aftermath of WWII, is about sex, love, lust, desire, and, consequently, in Soldati’s world, about guilt, shame, remorse, stigma, mortification, and sin (or the idea of sin). What starts as a torrid love affair between Harry, an American officer, and Dorothea, a voluptuous Roman prostitute, turns into a vertiginous game of mirrors. Harry is obsessed with his mistress, yet he marries Jane, an American woman who’s also part of the US contingent and whom he sees as good and pure. But, unbeknownst to him, Jane happens to be equally tormented by intense sexual thirst: she lusts for a handsome Italian man that she considers as forbidden but to whom she gives herself with fervor. The novel relies on a complicated architecture (flashbacks within flashbacks, different narrative voices, different time frames) that Soldati perfectly controls: it helps him in showing us the various, intermingling faces of those reverberating love affairs through the years. Entirely focused on the violent, burning, uncontrollable sexual impulses that inhabit its two American (and therefore rather sexually repressed) characters, the story is also imbued by the oppressive constraints of Catholicism. Desire and sex are sinful and almost evil (especially for the heroine, who’s religious), and the more Jane and Harry indulge in their respective illicit affairs, the more they are distressed by a powerful sense of guilt that, in a masochistic way, they also enjoy. This association of sex and sin seems today rather antiquated, but Soldati (who was educated by Jesuits) reveals adroitly what an incredible torment it informed in the minds of some westerners, only a few decades ago. The frankness with which Soldati writes about Harry’s and Jane’s compulsive behavior must have felt shocking in the fifties: today, it simply rings true, and it gives the book (which sometimes is a bit overlong) its momentum and dynamic. The uneasy blending of erotic longing and love is at the core of the story. It is, in Soldati’s view, shaped by fantasies (Harry’s obsession with Dorothea is partly built on the idea that she’s a prostitute and therefore a “bad” girl), by projections (nobody sees the other for who she or he is, but only for what they want them to be), by the perverse pleasure of pairing emotional pain with physical pleasure. Misery never ceases, even when some kind of happy ending seems to have been reached by some of the characters. Letters from Capri, despite (and maybe, at least in parts, because of) its sometimes dated views on sex, persists to be strangely haunting. One reason, I believe, is that Soldati is extremely good at describing, in a flurry of details, the exhausting, agonizing, and all-consuming hunger that sexual obsession unleashes and feeds. Anyone who has experienced it will recognize the truthfulness of the writer’s words.