I am very familiar with movies like The Conformist or Contempt, both adapted from novels by Alberto Moravia, and actually the name of Moravia has always been on my radar as one of Italy’s most famous writers of the last century (when he seems to be less celebrated here in the US), but I had never read his work until now. 1934 is one of his latest novels: it was published in 1982. Is it a good way to enter the world of the prolific author, who has written some other titles which are today considered as classics? I have no idea, but it certainly gave me the desire to read his other books, so it worked pretty well for me. 1934 – which, surprise, takes place in 1934 – is a beguiling, strange, and intricate fable that takes many faces as it develops, and that gets deeper and more complex at each turn. Julio is a young antifascist wannabe writer who wonders how to find a balance between his inner despair and his will to live. He meets, on the island of Capri, a mysterious, married German woman who oozes intense morbidity, and then later, he encounters, her twin sister, who couldn’t be more different. Slowly but surely, he is caught in a bizarre game of mirrors heated by mounting desires, where nothing is really ever what it seems to be. The erotic element that, from what I know, is present in most of Moravia’s books, definitely plays an essential role in the story, but I felt that it is, for the writer, mostly a pretext to explore subtle interrogations about the human psyche, interrogations that, under his gaze, hide within each other like Russian dolls. 1934 is a meditative, ironic, yet quite serious rumination on the ambiguous ties between love and death, love and politics in uncertain times, physical lust and psychological attraction. The more Julio is infatuated (and obsessed with his infatuation), the more he is assailed by questions and by doubts. Mysteries appear, which may be real or just creations of his ebullient imagination: they fabricate a vertiginous landscape of shifting emotions that finds their reflection in the gorgeous landscape of Capri in Summer. What is factual and true, what is imaginary and fake? Is love actually ever genuine, or is it a pure construction of the intellect? How can metaphysical despair coincide with the different aspects of love, and is death an inevitable consequence of absolute love? What roles do political choices – especially when those choices can be as dramatic as espousing fascism – play in the realm of desires? Moravia raises all those questions in an alluring, amused way, and if he never gives straight answers, he does investigate with cunning intelligence and intellectual agility all the various and possible replies that percolate through the narrator’s mind. Literary references (the iconic German writer Kleist, who met with a tragic fate, is one of the beating heart of the story) abound, and they add a rich layer of thoughtful and provocative speculation to the already rich content of the book. Yet, at the very same time, 1934 does read as a suspenseful, almost playful, novel of seduction. Obviously, Moravia was still at the top of his game at 75. Discovering 1934 now was a delight.