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, Historical Fiction, Italy, 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.

[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.

[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...

[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.

[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)

[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.

[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

[David Carrasco · Rating 5 out of 5]

Algunos escritores entran en una guerra con tanques, discursos y grandes frases sobre la Historia. Natalia Ginzburg entra por la cocina, por una habitación desordenada, por una conversación familiar en la que nadie parece estar diciendo nada decisivo hasta que, de pronto, uno se da cuenta de que todo lo decisivo ya estaba allí. La guerra, el fascismo, la juventud, el miedo, el amor torpe, la pérdida: todo cabe en una casa si quien mira sabe mirar. Y Ginzburg mira como si estuviera sentada en una silla baja, fingiendo que no juzga a nadie, mientras va tomando nota de todas nuestras pequeñas derrotas.

Todos nuestros ayeres cuenta la historia de Anna y de su familia en la Italia de los años del fascismo y la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Una casa, unos hermanos, unos vecinos, unas amistades, unos matrimonios, unas decisiones tomadas con más cansancio que épica. La novela avanza desde la vida doméstica hacia el derrumbe de una época, pero lo hace sin convertir a sus personajes en estatuas morales ni en figurantes de manual histórico. Aquí la Historia no entra por la puerta dando un portazo; se va colando en la conversación, en las cartas, en las ausencias, en los gestos raros, en esa forma que tiene la gente de seguir desayunando aunque el mundo se esté viniendo abajo. Y eso, dicho así, parece sencillo.

Pero lo sencillo en Ginzburg siempre tiene trampa.

Porque una de las cosas más impresionantes de esta novela es su tono. Ginzburg escribe con una especie de sequedad luminosa, una prosa que parece no querer llamar la atención y que, precisamente por eso, acaba golpeando más. No subraya el dolor, no lo perfuma, no lo convierte en una procesión de frases nobles. Lo deja ahí, a la vista, casi mal colocado, como se dejan las cosas en una casa donde ha pasado algo grave y nadie tiene fuerzas para ordenar. Sus frases tienen una naturalidad engañosa: parecen contar de pasada lo que otros autores habrían rodeado de música, incienso y tres páginas de dramatismo. Y, sin embargo, pocas veces esa contención resulta fría. Al contrario: hay una ternura muy extraña en su manera de narrar, una ternura que no abraza demasiado porque sabe que a veces abrazar demasiado también es una forma de mentir.

Anna pertenece a esa clase de personajes que empiezan casi en voz baja y acaban ocupando más espacio del que uno había previsto. No tiene el brillo obvio de las grandes protagonistas diseñadas para fascinar al lector. Es más esquiva, más opaca, más real quizá por eso mismo. Crece en medio de adultos que creen entender el mundo, de jóvenes que confunden las ideas con la vida, de hombres que hablan demasiado, de mujeres que cargan con lo que nadie termina de nombrar. Y Ginzburg la acompaña sin convertirla en símbolo limpio de nada. Anna mira, se equivoca, se deja llevar, se endurece, aprende sin que la novela tenga la mala educación de explicarnos exactamente qué ha aprendido. Esa discreción es una de las grandes virtudes del libro: Ginzburg confía en que el lector tenga pulso, memoria y algo de vergüenza humana.

Lo fascinante es que Todos nuestros ayeres podría haber sido una gran novela sobre la guerra, y lo es, pero no del modo en que uno espera. La guerra está, claro que está. Están el fascismo, la resistencia, el antisemitismo, la cárcel, el exilio interior, los muertos que van dejando huecos cada vez más difíciles de disimular. Pero la novela no parece interesada en levantar un monumento al sufrimiento. Le interesa algo más áspero: cómo la vida cotidiana sigue funcionando dentro de la catástrofe. A mí esa es la parte que más me ha seguido rondando: la obstinación casi indecente de la vida cotidiana. Cómo la gente se enamora mal, se casa peor, discute tonterías, se aburre, se aferra a manías, come lo que hay, toma decisiones ridículas o cobardes mientras alrededor se decide el destino de Europa. Eso es lo terrible. No que la Historia interrumpa la vida, sino que la vida continúe dentro de la Historia con una mezcla de dignidad, estupidez, cansancio y hambre.

Hay una grandeza moral en esa mirada, aunque a Ginzburg seguramente le habría dado pereza que uno lo formulara así, tan bien peinadito. En su mundo rara vez hay grandes revelaciones. Todo se construye por acumulación. Un nombre que vuelve. Una casa que ya no significa lo mismo. Un personaje secundario que desaparece y deja una marca desproporcionada. Una frase dicha casi sin ganas que, veinte páginas después, pesa como una piedra. En esa confianza brutal en lo pequeño puede recordar a Chéjov. También se acerca, de otra manera, a Elsa Morante o a Cesare Pavese: escritores italianos que entendieron que el siglo XX destruyó ciudades, sí, pero también formas de hablar, de amar, de pertenecer a una familia. Ginzburg, aun así, tiene algo muy suyo: una manera de bajar la temperatura emocional sin apagar nunca el incendio.

Y luego está la familia, claro. Esa institución tan literaria y tan peligrosa, donde uno aprende el idioma, los miedos, los rencores y las formas particulares de hacerse daño sin necesidad de demasiada imaginación. En Todos nuestros ayeres, la familia no aparece como refugio puro ni como cárcel absoluta. Es más ambigua, más reconocible: una casa llena de voces que no siempre se escuchan, de afectos torpes, de lealtades que sobreviven incluso cuando nadie sabe muy bien qué hacer con ellas. Ginzburg entiende que los grandes acontecimientos rara vez agotan la memoria de una familia: quedan también sus frases repetidas, sus silencios, sus pequeñas mitologías domésticas. Ahí ya se intuye a la autora de Léxico familiar, aunque aquí el tono sea más novelesco, más sombrío, atravesado por una época que va estrechando el aire.

Lo curioso es que la novela nunca parece pedirnos admiración. No se exhibe. No hace ese gesto tan molesto de algunos libros importantes que entran en la habitación reclamando respeto antes de haber dicho una sola palabra. Todos nuestros ayeres avanza con una humildad aparente, casi con modestia, y cuando uno quiere darse cuenta ya tiene entre las manos una novela enorme. Su grandeza está en la cantidad de vida que logra contener sin convertirla en espectáculo. Ginzburg escribe como quien sabe que las personas rara vez están a la altura de sus propias ideas, y que precisamente ahí empieza la literatura: en esa distancia entre lo que creemos ser y lo que hacemos cuando llega el miedo, el deseo, la soledad o una guerra.

Quizá por eso el título pesa tanto. Todos nuestros ayeres. No “aquellos años”, no “su pasado”, no “la Italia de entonces”. Nuestros. Porque en Ginzburg la memoria nunca queda quieta en una vitrina de museo; todavía nos mancha los dedos. Lo que cuenta pertenece a un tiempo concreto, pero su materia íntima sigue aquí: la fragilidad de las convicciones, la torpeza sentimental, la facilidad con la que una casa puede convertirse en ruina sin que nadie sepa señalar el momento exacto en que empezó a derrumbarse.

Al terminar la novela queda una sensación difícil de explicar: la de haber vivido durante un tiempo con personas que hicieron lo que pudieron, que no siempre fue mucho, pero que aun así importan. Y tal vez ahí esté la grandeza de Natalia Ginzburg: nos recuerda que la vida rara vez adopta la forma de una gran escena final. Suele parecerse más a una suma de días, conversaciones, errores, platos sobre la mesa, cartas, habitaciones, despedidas y frases que en su momento parecían menores.

Hasta que se convierten en nuestros ayeres.

[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.

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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.
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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

[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.

[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.

[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.

[CCB · Rating 5 out of 5]

Não contava que uma narrativa sobre a segunda Guerra fosse tão divertida e tão aprazível de ler. Sobretudo porque é o tema mais cansado e saturado do nosso ambiente cultural: tenho um cansaço enorme em leituras sobre o nazismo e sobre a segunda guerra. Mas este livro é absolutamente maravilhoso.
Ginzburg tem um talento monumental para nos transportar para junto das suas personagens, e fazer o leitor sentir que está sentado à mesa com elas. E é magistral na construção e descrição de personagens inesquecíveis: o pai viúvo de Todos os Nossos Ontens, que lembra muito o pai de Léxico Familiar e é com certeza uma representação do pai da própria Ginzburg; o inesquecível Cenzo Rena, que a mim me lembrou imenso o Levin de Anna Karénina e que me fez rir até às lágrimas e sublinhar quase todas as suas falas e pensamentos. A Senhora Maria, mulher que esteve sempre certa e perspicaz, a quem o destino e o abandono traíram, como a tantas outras mulheres do serviço doméstico.
A escrita é limpa, crua, direta, mas nada pesada, nada carregada. Todos os Nossos Ontens é um livro brilhante sobre a capacidade infinita e maravilhosa que o ser humano tem para fazer a vida continuar no meio do caos e da destruição, para tecer o seu quotidiano enquanto as bombas caem.

[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....

[Isa · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5/5⭐️ An incredibly honest and raw portrayal of life amidst WWII Italy. An exploration of family and love in the heat of political anguish. Although I did struggle at times with the writing style (which would completely have been impacted by its translation of course), I found the narrative so illuminating and free from glittering romanticising for the sake of reader’s digestion. It is inherently historical fiction which follows a myriad of characters, though I wish there was a stronger focal point. Perhaps if it had delved into Anna’s character I would feel a deeper sense of human connection to the novel; (as i typically do when it comes to italian fiction). Nonetheless, it was amazingly written and definitely a must read. It is a tragic tale posing the underlying idea of purpose and where to next post a period of time as horrid as war and fascism.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[Digdem Absin · Rating 3 out of 5]

Natalia Ginzburg’un, 1930’ların sonundan II. Dünya Savaşı’nın sonuna kadar İtalya’yı konu alan romanı Bütün Dünlerimiz.

Kuzey İtalya’nın küçük bir şehrinde, Emekli sosyalist avukat ve dört çocuğunun hikayesiyle başlıyor hikaye. Faşizmin yükselişinden ve halkın çoğunun faşistlerin yanında yer almasından bunalıp kendi anı kitabını yazmaya başlayan avukat çok geçmeden bu çabasının boşuna olduğunu anlar. Onun ölümünden sonra çocuklarının yaşadığı sıkıntılar aslında Avrupa ve İtalya üzerindeki kara bulutların yansıması gibidir. Almanların yaşattığı kabus ve İtalyan hükümetinin yanlış kararları aslında savaşı istemeyen çok sayıda İtalyanın hayatlarının altüst olmasına sebep olur. Her biri farklı yere savrulan dört kardeşin ve onların dostlarının hikayesi en küçük kardeş Anna ekseninde anlatılıyor. Kuzey ve Güney arasındaki farklar, Güneyin fakirliği ve eğitimsizliği İtalya gerçeğini gözler önüne seriyor.

Konusu muhteşem ama anlatım tarzı vasat bir roman. Ginzburg hikayeyi dümdüz, bana göre ruhsuz bir şekilde anlatıyor. Hiç diyalog yok romanda ve büyük oranda şimdiki zamanın hikayesi ile anlatılıyor. Bu sebeple dili tekdüze ve zaman zaman yorucu olmuş. Sona doğru hikaye hızlansa da tarz olarak sıkıcıydı.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[Argos · Rating 4 out of 5]

1930’lar İtalya’sında bir ailenin dramatik öyküsü, bir kuşağın faşizm ve savaş arasındaki sıkışmışlığını anlatan bir roman. Konu çok güzel, içindeki öykülere bakıldığında onlar da iyi öyküler, gelin görün ki sanki arkadan kovalayan varmışcasına acele acele bir anlatımla güzelim roman ruhsuz bir hale getirilmiş. N. Ginzburg oldukça yavan, edebi dilden uzak bir uslup ile güzelim konuyu biraz öldürmüş. Yazar mı çeviri mi hatalı tam karar veremedim aslında .

[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.