Immortal Words: the Language and Style of the Contemporary Italian Undead-Romance Novel

Home , Amico mio, Gaetana, Hopeless (True Blood), Love Would Be Enough, Paranormal romance, School for Vampires

Christina Vani

A thesis submitted in conformity with the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Department of Italian Studies University of Toronto

Immortal Words: the Language and Style of the Contemporary Italian Undead-Romance Novel

Christina Vani

Doctor of Philosophy

Department of Italian Studies University of Toronto

2018 Abstract

This thesis explores the language and style of six “undead romances” by four contemporary

Italian women authors. I begin by defining the undead romance, trace its roots across horror and romance genres, and examine the subgenres under the horror-romance umbrella.

The Trilogia di Mirta-Luna by Chiara Palazzolo features a 19-year-old sentient zombie as the protagonist: upon waking from death, Mirta-Luna searches the Subasio region for her love… but also for human flesh. These novels present a unique interpretation of the contemporary “vampire romance” subgenre, as they employ a style influenced by Palazzolo’s American and British literary idols, including Cormac McCarthy’s dialogic style, but they also contain significant lexical traces of the Cannibali and their contemporaries.

The final three works from the A cena col vampiro series are Moonlight rainbow by Violet

Folgorata, Raining stars by Michaela Dooley, and Porcaccia, un vampiro! by Giusy De Nicolo.

The first two are fan-fiction works inspired by Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight Saga, while the last is an original queer vampire romance. These novels exhibit linguistic and stylistic traits in stark contrast with the Trilogia’s, though Porcaccia has more in common with Mirta-Luna than first meets the eye. While the former two are set in the United Kingdom and feature simple ii dialogue with scant reflections of realistic speech, the latter unfolds in Apulia and reflects the idiomatic expressions and linguistic conventions typical of Italian youth—and young Italian writers.

In my thesis, I demonstrate that these works display characteristics that are strictly Italian rather than merely featuring a mirror image of American art lacquered in green, white, and red. While they model themselves on and are inspired by the long and rich history of vampire literature in anglophone cultures, these undead romances, written in Italian for local audiences, betray a burgeoning interest in darker genres in Italy.

iii

Acknowledgments and Dedication

I acknowledge, first and foremost, the support of my father, Mario Vani (1957–2007). Though he is not physically with us, his thirst for knowledge and his passion for bettering the self, through learning, experiencing, and living, were ever-present in all of my educational pursuits, not least of which this doctoral degree. His spirit inspired me along every step of this journey, and I am grateful for his presence and influence. Any and all of the positive traits that fuelled the fire inside of me were inherited or learned from him. Papa, I dedicate this work to you; I firmly believe that I could not have done this without you.

Formally, I extend tremendous gratitude to my Thesis Supervisor, Franco Pierno. If he had not encouraged me to study material that truly invigorated me, I might not be publishing a thesis today at all. Prof. Pierno, I thank you for believing in me and I will always be grateful for your generous support, knowledge, gentle advice, and patience. I owe deep appreciation as well to Luca Somigli and Alberto Zambenedetti for their expertise and humour and for helping me think outside of the box. I must underline here, as well, that the term “undead romance” would not exist if Prof. Somigli had not introduced it to the world! Every professor and administrator who has guided me in some way during my master’s and doctorate research, I thank you. I must indicate particular gratitude to Salvatore Bancheri, Anna Laura Lepschy, Giulio Lepschy, Anne Urbancic, Kevin Reynolds, Dario Brancato, and Anselmo Terminelli for their guidance, knowledge, graciousness, and generosity of time and spirit.

As they say for raising children, “it takes a village”; so it is, it appears, with works of this scope, and this thesis could barely have been raised without the love and support of my family and friends. Research and reading are isolating tasks and I was fortunate that, despite the kilometres separating me from my mother, sister, and immediate family, I received hands-on support through phone calls, text messages, and sometimes even visits. Mom, Jess, Maritsa, Amanda, Matthew, Carol, Irene, Vanessa, Emanuela, Giovanna, Kathleen, Paolo, Silvia, and all of my extended family (zii and cugini—you know who you are!): you are gems and you are spectacular cheerleaders. You have never left my side or called me crazy or told me to let go when it got too hard. You were always there. Thank you.

Finally, Dane, my husband, whom I met at the beginning of my degree: you saw it all. You were behind the scenes on days of triumph and moments of failure. You literally held my hand when I needed encouragement and you said yes to our adopting Zoe the Dog—in the middle of my degree!—when I wished for some company during long days of solitary research. Without this degree, I would not have met you; without the requirements of this research, we would not have Zoe; without your support, gusto, and unconditional love, I might have taken years longer to complete this work. Thank you for the meals you cooked for me, the days you walked Zoe, and the nights you convinced me to close my computer and get some rest so I could start anew the next day. I am infinitely grateful to you; a large part of my success is due to your allowing me to lean on you.

Ai miei cari nonni: se non fosse per voi, non avrei imparato questa lingua condivisa da tutti i nostri antenati. Se non fosse per voi, non avrei raggiunto questo livello di studio di questa nostra lingua. Se non fosse per voi, la mia vita sarebbe completamente diversa. Se non fosse per la vostra storia, una storia di sacrifici, di speranza, di amore e di duri e faticosi giorni di lavoro per conseguire la vita ideale per la vostra famiglia, non avrei avuto il coraggio e la disciplina di perseguire questo dottorato. Nonna Giannina, l’hai detto meglio tu: “Le lingue non costano molto ma valgono tanto”. Con questa nostra lingua e grazie a questa nostra storia, abbiamo compiuto questo lavoro insieme. Vi ringrazio di cuore.

I dedicate this work to all of you, and to you I remain eternally and immortally grateful.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments and Dedication ...... iv

Table of Contents ...... vi

List of Figures ...... x

Chapter 1 An Introduction to Immortal Words: the Language and Style of the Contemporary Italian Undead-Romance Novel ...... 1

1 An Immortal Welcome ...... 1

2 The Works Under Examination and the Breakdown of This Dissertation ...... 3

3 What Is Undead Romance? From Gothic Novels to the Contemporary Romance Novel ...... 5

3.1 Why Do We Love Vampires when They Just Want to Kill Us? ...... 8

3.2 The Rise of Recent Romances and the “Great Dark Man” ...... 9

3.3 What Once Was One Became Separate to Become One Again: from Adventurous Stories, to Romances, to Undead Romances ...... 11

4 From Gallows Literature to the Infallible Recipe of Love and Death ...... 12

5 The Status of the Italian Vampire, from the Late 1800s to the New Millennium ...... 15

6 My Research Approach and the State of the Scholarship ...... 18

6.1 The State of the Scholarship ...... 18

6.2 Approaching the Undead Romance via Research on Paraliterature ...... 19

6.3 Quality and Quantity: the Issue of Serial Works ...... 20

7 Guiding Questions ...... 23

Chapter 2 “Andrei nel fuoco, per lui”: the Genre and Style of Chiara Palazzolo’s Trilogia di Mirta-Luna ...... 25

1 Introduction: Into Which Literary Genre Does the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna Fit? ...... 25

2 Plot Summary of the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna by Chiara Palazzolo ...... 29

3 Classifying the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna: Horror, Romance, or a Blend of the Two? ...... 31

3.1 Mirta Fossati the Chick-Lit Heroine? ...... 32

3.2 Chick-Lit and Teen-Lit Linguistics and Stylistics ...... 34 vi

3.3 Classification Conclusions ...... 36

4 Coming of Age in an Ageless Body: the Trilogia and Other Undead Romances ...... 36

4.1 The Trilogia di Mirta-Luna versus the Rosa and “Vamp-Lit” Imports ...... 40

4.2 Romance Clichés and Identity Crises: Notable Episodes in the Trilogia and Innocent Mirta’s (D)evolution into “Dark Lady” Luna ...... 42

5 Syntax and Style ...... 52

5.1 Repetition ...... 58

5.2 Direct Discourse ...... 64

5.3 Register ...... 71

5.4 Leitmotifs ...... 81

6 Summary and Conclusions ...... 85

Chapter 3 The Language of the “mondo selvaggio” of the Sopramorti in the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna ...... 90

1 Introduction: Separating Macro Trends from Micro Ones in Part Two of the Analysis of the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna ...... 90

2 Punctuation, Orthography, and Formatting ...... 92

3 Lexicon ...... 98

3.1 Giovanilese, Colloquialisms, and Aspects of Orality ...... 98

3.2 Droghese ...... 108

3.3 Sex...... 111

3.4 Vulgar Terms, Curse Words, and Euphemisms ...... 116

3.5 Brand Names ...... 120

3.6 Anthroponymy ...... 124

3.7 “Exotic” and Foreign Influences ...... 125

3.8 English Onomatopoeia and Expressions from Comics ...... 129

3.9 Borrowings from French and Other Languages ...... 132

3.10 Verb Agreement ...... 133

vii

4 Summary and Conclusions ...... 135

Chapter 4 The Conventional Romantic Charm of the Purple-Eyed Vampires: the Style of the A cena col vampiro Books ...... 140

1 Introduction: Edward and Bella Host a Dinner for Ethan and Liz ...... 140

1.1 The Plot and Fictional Backdrop of A cena col vampiro: American Edward and Bella Become British Liz and Ethan ...... 144

1.2 Ludovico the Vampire and Andrea the Human Live Happily Ever After: the Plot of Porcaccia, un vampiro! ...... 152

1.3 Classifying the Books of A cena col vampiro: Horror, Romance, a Blend of the Two—or None of the Above? ...... 157

1.4 Romance Clichés in A cena col vampiro and the Series’ Undead-Romance Predecessors ...... 161

2 Syntax and Style ...... 171

2.1 Repetition ...... 173

2.2 Direct Discourse ...... 177

2.3 Register and Orality ...... 179

3 Summary and Conclusions ...... 183

Chapter 5 “Porcaccia! Un po’ di brodo che male fa?”: the Language of the A cena col vampiro Books ...... 185

1 Introduction: Juxtaposing the Idealised Monologues of Liz and Ethan and the Edgy, Realistic Dialogues of Andrea and Ludovico ...... 185

2 Punctuation, Orthography, and Formatting ...... 187

2.1 Punctuation ...... 190

2.2 Orthography ...... 197

2.3 Formatting ...... 199

3 Lexicon ...... 205

3.1 Giovanilese, Colloquialisms, and Aspects of Orality ...... 206

3.2 Droghese ...... 213

3.3 Sex...... 214

viii

3.4 Vulgar Terms, Curse Words, and Euphemisms ...... 222

3.5 Brand Names ...... 225

3.6 Anthroponymy and Fictional and Historical References ...... 227

3.7 “Exotic” and Foreign Influences ...... 239

3.8 Onomatopoeia and Expressions from Comics ...... 244

3.9 Borrowings from English, French, Dialect, and Other Languages ...... 244

3.10 Verb Tenses and Predilected Forms ...... 250

4 Summary and Conclusions ...... 253

Chapter 6 Conclusion: What Is Next for the Undying, or Is It Relevant to Speak of the Future of Immortal Beings? ...... 257

1 So What? ...... 257

2 While These Books Are Written in Italian, Some Are Not Really Italian ...... 260

3 Mirta-Luna Hits a Home Run in a League of Her Own ...... 264

4 The End of the End, Though Immortality Has No End ...... 267

Bibliography ...... 270

List of Figures

Figure 1. Cover image on the web site for the Italian literary magazine Il Libraio for the page of suggestions for readers of vampire fiction, “Per chi ha amato la saga di ‘Twilight’ ed è affascinato da queste creature della notte” ...... 126

Figure 2. The first selections of vampire novels, all by female authors from the English-speaking world, suggested on the web site for the Italian literary magazine Il Libraio ...... 127

Figure 3. Image of the “scroll” composed by Cosmo dei Caldei, a friend of the Rochesters .... 151

Figure 4. The landing page for the A cena col vampiro series, which will become La saga della sedicesima notte, on the Òphiere web site ...... 188

Chapter 1 An Introduction to Immortal Words: the Language and Style of the Contemporary Italian Undead-Romance Novel

1 An Immortal Welcome

At the dawn of the year 2018, humanoid creatures of the night creep silently, unobtrusively, cautiously in the forgotten forested lands of our memory, waiting for the moment to resurface and feed. The time will come again when popular audiences will crave the presence of these oft- malevolent but frequently kind-hearted beasts, just as the time always rolls around for the vampire, the zombie, and the shape-shifter to embrace their bestial nature and feed on that which gives them energy, strength, and immortality.

But in the weak light of the early dawn of 2018, this is barely a safe space for the vampire, who, one should hope, is safely enveloped in the dark confines of the earth, a cellar, or the coffin of stereotypes. Dusk will fall again and they will rise.1

Luckily for us mortals, in this fresh light following the most recent vital resurrection of the cinematic and literary vampire, we have safety, space, hindsight, and a wealth of research in which to carefully dig to help us to reflect on, examine, and analyse every pallid, grotesque, and graceful detail of literary vampires and their undead kith. Indeed, the latest period of unselfconscious enthralment with creatures of the night fed the mainstream public globally for several years with few apparent signs of abating. While the fictional vampiric reign sprang forth in the United States in the early years of the new millennium, audiences all over the world indulged in the romances, adventures, and vulnerabilities of the undead in languages they could

1 As of this writing in January 2018, Walking Dead is still going strong, with a ninth season to be aired later this year (Prudom). Furthermore, work toward adapting Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles for the small screen has begun in earnest (Elderkin). While the hype surrounding the undead may be but a shadow of its early-2000s self, it appears that blood-drinkers and flesh-eaters will always have a place, prominent or otherwise and with ebbs and flows, in popular culture.

1 2 comprehend, thanks to the linguistic adaptation of the media on television, on the big screen, and in literature. In some countries, there was inspiration to create native works incorporating the travails of the tragic beauty of the vampiric condition; in others, translated works sufficed to ignite and maintain the flames of passion and intrigue that the undead romance kindled in the mostly-female audience.

Despite the rarity of a full-blown undead-romance genre in non–English-speaking countries—a rarity that I investigate in this introductory chapter—countries like Italy still have the potential to add to the richness and complexity of this literary movement. In some cases, as in the case of Chiara Palazzolo (October 31, 1961–August 6, 2012), stylistically unique undead romances preceded or coincided with the mainstream vampiric resurrection in such a way as to stand out starkly enough to be missed entirely by those who consume undead-romance novels. And while such works of “paraliterature” may go unnoticed for years or decades, this certainly does not mean that these novels are without merit or investigative worth.2

For this reason, in 2018, more than 10 years since the beginning of the last “vampire boom” around the world but on the cusp of an intellectual rediscovery of Anne Rice’s eloquent and complex canon of vampire fiction, I resurrect prominent and obscure(d) novels of undead romance produced in Italian, in Italy, by Italian authors. A single native Italian series, La Trilogia di Mirta-Luna by Palazzolo, an undead-romance series also possessing horror traits, began its adventure just before the vampire-romance explosion and ended its series (followed, unfortunately, by the untimely death of the author in 2012) at the height of Twilight hysteria. Another Italian series, all works of Twilight fan fiction, save for one, and with links closer to romance proper rather than to horror, is A cena col vampiro, the works of which were composed by four different authors.3 The books in the latter series (save for one) were conceived and published as fan fiction in response to the renewed obsession with vampires across all media; meanwhile, the first series’ coincident publication with the Twilight Saga could not have been

2 The term “paraliterature,” tossed around with slight denigration by some critics, objective neutrality by others, and with endearment by others still, is presented etymologically on p. 16, defined on p. 20, and discussed on pp. 16–23 in this chapter. 3 Currently, in its new iteration, titled La saga della sedicesima notte and published by Òphiere, the series contains three authors: Michaela Dooley, Violet Folgorata, and Margaret Gaiottina—all of whom write under noms de plume.

3 influenced by novels produced by the dominant culture.

2 The Works Under Examination and the Breakdown of This Dissertation

In summary, then, the works comprising the focal point of my research were published between 2005 and 2010 and are the following:

i. the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna (published by Piemme), by Chiara Palazzolo:

a. Non uccidermi (2005);

b. Strappami il cuore (2006);

c. Ti porterò nel sangue (2007);

ii. a selection of books from the vampire-romance series A cena col vampiro (in the editions published by Mamma Editori), written by various authors:4

a. Moonlight rainbow (2009), by Violet Folgorata (book #1 in the series);5

b. Raining stars (2010), by Michaela Dooley (#4);

c. and Porcaccia, un vampiro! (2009), by Giusy De Nicolo (#5).

The genre and style of the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna are discussed in Chapter 2, with the linguistic traits examined in Chapter 3. The books in the A cena col vampiro series are examined in a similar fashion: Moonlight rainbow, Raining stars, and Porcaccia, un vampiro! are examined generically and stylistically in Chapter 4, with Chapter 5 focusing on their linguistic

4 The first two books feature the adventures of the same group of vampires, as do the rest of the books in the series, save for Porcaccia, un vampiro!, which exists in a fictional world of its own but was still published in the same series, and Dark angel (2010), by Fanny Goldrose. The inclusion of these books in the series remains unclear, but the impending republishing of the A cena col vampiro books under the series name of La saga della sedicesima notte, which excludes both books, points to a refining of the content of the series (see pp. 189–192 in Chapter 4 for more on the new iteration of this series). Finally, the books are listed in this order, despite their years of publication, as Folgorata’s book is marked as “n. 1” on its title page; De Nicolo’s, “n. 5.” 5 Folgorata (Monica Montanari), like Dooley (Michaela Intermite), writes under a nom de plume. See Chapter 4 to learn about the women behind these names, namely Folgorata.

4 characteristics. While the authors (and their respective prose styles) of these last three books are noticeably disparate, I chose to group these books together: I assumed in primis that their linguistic and stylistic traits would overlap, given their inclusion in a series that, in some ways, betrays and, in others, unequivocally fulfils the faithful obeisance of modern romance conventions. Though the first three, by Palazzolo, are stylistically in a league of their own, the final three are equally deserving of their place in the canon of contemporary Italian undead romances.

As mentioned earlier, these novels were published in Italy during the peak in popularity of the fictional nocturnal blood-drinker, yet, even with the decade since they appeared on bookstore shelves, scholarly research into their forms—linguistic, stylistic, and generic—are close to nonexistent; meanwhile, research into the forms of undead romances written in English abound. For both English and Italian romances, scholars have amassed a wealth of studies parsing the language and the style of books in this genre that appeals to adult women predominantly. What happens, though, when we add a touch of darkness to the mix—say, the presence of a creature that exceeds the power, beauty, wealth, and life expectancy of most mere mortals? Is there truly a dynamic shift in the narration of romance when a vampire6 or zombie is involved, and, if there is, how is this manifested in the language and in the style of the narration? If the Italian undead- romance novel under investigation is a work of fan fiction, does it emulate the conventions of its anglophone models or does it adhere to the shapes and forms of the long-established Italian romance? And what of the Italian undead romance makes this horror and romance hybrid unique?

In this thesis, I study the Italian undead-romance novel in a linguistic and stylistic context, rather than a strictly literary one. The goals of my research are to describe and analyse the following: the language and the style of this relatively new genre in the native Italian literary landscape; how linguistic and stylistic choices are made based on the genre and based on the audience that is primarily, but not exclusively, composed of teenaged and adult females; and how these traits match and fit into the sister genres of books written for this young-adult and adult readership. In

6 While vampires are generally the most popular of the undead love interests in the novels I study, an important exception surfaces: the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna, a trilogy marketed as a vampire romance but that features zombies rather than vampires. Because of this discrepancy, “undead romance” has been preferred as the term to denote this trend of contemporary romance novels, with distinct thanks being owed to Luca Somigli for selecting this term.

5 the following pages of this introductory chapter, I set the scene for this study with a description of what the constitutes the unread romance, a presentation of the state of the scholarship, a survey of the research conducted thus far on romance and horror, an introduction to paraliterature, and a brief chronology of the works that brought us the undead romances that captivate our contemplation.

3 What Is Undead Romance? From Gothic Novels to the Contemporary Romance Novel

The undead romance fits into the subgenre of the paranormal romance,7 which itself is included in the genre of the contemporary romance, which, finally, stems from the rich tradition of English 18th-century Gothic fiction. For the sake of clarity, I will use the term undead romance throughout this dissertation to refer to the genre under analysis, one that has received a tremendous literary following in the last 15 years; this readership comprises mainly adolescent females (Day 29), but also females ranging from adolescence to “mid-life” (Day 28). Indeed, if one is to take the now-concluded HBO television show True Blood, a gratuitously violent and sexually explicit series based on Charlaine Harris’ friendlier and somewhat less licentious Southern Vampire Mysteries (also known as The Sookie Stackhouse Series, in honour of the protagonist), as a sample of what is desirable in stories about “modern vampires,” teenagers would not be seen as a focus group at all. Nonetheless, there is something for everyone in this subgenre: Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series, which is an important and recurrent point of reference in this thesis and which, in many ways, spearheaded the mass frenzy over vampires in the early 2000s, constitutes a “thriving fandom made up of self-professed ‘Twihards’ [a clever blend of the words Twilight and die-hard],” Day explains. These “Twihards” include adult women so passionate about the franchise’s vampire protagonist, Edward Cullen, that they profess their love for and approval of him by “don[ning] T-shirts emblazoned with the words ‘Team

7 The “paranormal” in “paranormal romance” might speak for itself, but, for the purposes of clarity and intention, I use Crawford’s taxonomy (10): “By ‘paranormal romance’ I refer to romantic fictions [that] feature overtly supernatural elements: ghosts, vampires, angels, werewolves, fairies, wizards, and so on.”

Edward’8 or, even more tellingly, ‘Mrs. Cullen’” (Day 28).9 With the suggestion that these female readers wish to be the “Mrs.” to a certain Mr. Cullen, it can be said that the majority of the undead-romance fanbase comprises, in fact, heterosexual females.10

The undead romance, as previously stated, has roots both in romance literature and in Gothic literature. The origins of Gothic literature in Europe lie in the Anglo-Saxon world, primarily, and came to Italy via translations of popular books, either directly from the source language or via translations into French. In the United Kingdom, The Mysteries of Udolpho, by Ann Radcliffe (1794; translated into Italian in 1875) and The Castle of Otranto: A Gothic Story, by Horace Walpole (1764; translated into Italian in 1765) were notable; in France, Le solitaire, by the Viscount D’Arlincourt (1821; translated into Italian in 1823). John William Polidori, Bram Stoker, Franco Mistrali, Luigi Capuana, Anne Rice,11 and Annette Curtis Klause, all of whom published within the last two centuries, did not deal specifically with romances between vampire and mortal as the contemporary incarnations do; nevertheless, the undead romance bows with immortal reverence toward the compositions of such writers (of English- and Italian-speaking worlds). The undead romance is, indubitably, a genre characterised by preternatural youth, though its essence has only lately morphed and gained popular attention. Since I study the undead romance in its “heyday” of the past 15 years, and strictly, in this dissertation, between the years 2005 and 2010, I restrict my study to select books published in Italian within this chronological window.

The Italian undead-romance novel has received little attention from scholars, since works of this genre written in Italian are far from numerous; meanwhile, translations of popular English works are easy to find in Italy. The undead romance features many of the same traits as the modern

8 In the series, vampire Edward and werewolf Jacob Black vie for lead female Bella Swan’s gaze. Thus, fans declaring loyalty to a “team” express their wish for the vampire (“Team Edward”) or the werewolf (“Team Jacob”) to win Bella’s heart. 9 The “Twilight Moms” fan club, composed of mothers in their 30s, 40s, and 50s who are dedicated “Twihards,” further exemplifies this. 10 As the present reader will discover, this is in alignment with the audience of heterosexual females for the earliest romance novels in the 1800s and 1900s. See pp. 8–14 of this chapter. 11 It is important to note, however, that Rice’s Vampire Chronicles, while rife with emotion, trauma, and tragedy, feature less romance than sensuality. As Crawford is careful to indicate, the Chronicles “[deal] with the romantic and erotic allure of the vampire without actually being a romance” (83).

7 romance novel, though the latter, in its currently recognisable form, “did not start to attain a determinate generic identity of its own until the 1920s and 1930s” (Crawford 38). This was because, prior to these years, all novels had love stories embedded in them—love and adventure—but love was not the focal point driving the plot of the story, as it is in romance novels as we know them today.12 The cultural shift that led to the popularity of the romance novel, however, did not stem from some artistic or even cultural caprice; rather, the increased profitability and popularity of the modern romance was “at least partly contingent upon another historical development of the period: the entry of large amounts of women into the British and American white-collar workforce” (Crawford 38). Indeed, coinciding with the dynamite combination of women’s increased autonomy, financial independence, and “leisure time that had been largely denied their mothers and grandmothers” and that was now available to them in the post-war era, women “formed a significant market for fiction” (38).

The modern romance as we know it, the one that has been globalised, to an extent, thanks to the publishing empires of Harlequin and Mills & Boon, became differentiated when the love story became the primary focus—when it became the whole story. Thanks to the international influence of romantic novels and publishers such as Harlequin (and later, in Italy, Harlequin Mondadori, amongst other romance series), today’s Italian romance novels possess many, if not all, of the same traits of the novels written for English-speaking audiences, since the former was born from the English model: they feature exoticism (from settings to names and origins of characters);13 strict heteronormative roles; sex (but not explicit sex—that is, not until the late 20th century); obstacles that keep the unlikely couple apart (usually a woman of a socially or financially inferior status is coupled with a strong and successful man); and a happy ending. What differentiates the undead romance from these “run-of-the-mill” romance novels is not obvious, as most of the aforementioned traits and tropes tend to be respected, that is, included, as dictated by convention and tradition, in the contemporary romance. Indeed, it is typically the

12 “A reader in the 1780s who chose to read Gothic ‘romances’ could expect to find much more action, magic and violence in her fiction than if she had chosen to read ‘novels’ instead; but what she would probably not expect to find was a greater emphasis on love” (Crawford 17). 13 With its self-evident title, The Sheik (1919), by Edith Maude Hull, is but one example of a work that features this trope.

8 vampirism14 of one of the two romantic partners—usually the male, whose vampirism offers him immortality, superior strength, ethereal beauty, and, often, increased social desirability and power—that keeps the couple from uniting. Finally, the vampire yields and “turns” the weaker, less beautiful woman into a vampire. Then, they can live happily ever after.

3.1 Why Do We Love Vampires when They Just Want to Kill Us?

But how did the vampire even become a desirable romantic character? The answer may be simple: the “Byronic hero,” of the eponymous author’s works, is the literary and cultural antecedent to the romantic vampire hero—rather, the latter is the “literalized metaphor” of Byronic heroes, who are “gloomy, passionate, aristocratic heroes, men of action and violence who scorned social convention, preferring to withdraw from the world to live as pirates, or solitaries, or wanderers upon the earth” (Crawford 24). Coincidentally, Polidori, a physician and the writer of the English-speaking world’s first vampire novel, The Vampyre (1819), modelled his fictional blood-drinker on Lord Byron, a patient of his. Joseph Crawford even owes the existence of the vampire romance to Byron proper, asserting that “[p]erhaps the most important inheritance bequeathed by Byron to subsequent Gothic fiction was the figure of the vampire” via Polidori (27). Though vampires have been featured in Western literature and culture in the last two centuries, as of the past 100 years,

their portrayal in our culture has morphed from monster to lover, from single-minded villain to complex antihero. The vampire was once held up as the embodiment of evil and temptation, but has now become the ultimate romantic alpha-hero. (Clements 2)

According to Crawford (7), the vampire became a suitable object of fantasy for mainstream female audiences due to shifting times and predilections; prime amongst these was “the changing status of the most basic Gothic figure: the outsider […].” Ide cites the versatility in the symbolism of the vampire as the key to the concentrated amount of written works featuring vampires as either hero(in)es or antagonists. Indeed, “[t]he vampire is a shape-shifter that can take the form of society’s fears at any particular time,” including societal pariahs ranging from “emancipated, sexually aggressive young wom[e]n” during the 1920s—in fact labelled as

14 In the case of the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna, the age, power, and charm of the older Robin seduce the young and naïve Mirta into dying for and with him—but only he knew with certainty that they would resurrect as zombies. Otherwise, Palazzolo’s supernatural lovers endure a brief romance marred by betrayal and desertion instead of resulting in a climax of eternal love and adoration.

“vamps”15—to “every confused, misfit teenager in the world” in the current era (Ide).

Let us return for a moment to the ineffable appeal of the lonely but independent male blood- sucker—perhaps the darkest incarnation of the Byronic hero—to vulnerable human females: “[I]t is from the pain and doom of [the vampires’] unwilling vampirism that they are rescued by their usually human heroines,” Crawford explains (82), and, indeed, the trope of the “Great, Dark Man in his Great, Dark House” of Gothic novels sets the ideal scene for many conventional romances to develop.16 As other romances possessing Gothic elements to lesser or greater degrees exemplify (like Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier [1938] and, from earlier periods, A Sicilian Romance by Radcliffe [1790] and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë [1847]), the “Great, Dark Man usually inhabits his Great, Dark House with his imprisoned wife or ghost of her presence” (Crawford 44). However, rather than send any female suitors running away, “the reaction of the heroines to […] crimes changes utterly: from unqualified horror and condemnation in A Sicilian Romance, to severely critical in Jane Eyre, to complete, unconditional support in Rebecca” (44). With the passing of years, the subordinate female in these relationships in the Gothic romance becomes progressively more permissive in the face of her paramour’s transgressions.

3.2 The Rise of Recent Romances and the “Great Dark Man”

The period during which a number of romance novels that followed this model were published fell between the two World Wars: times were changing, as were the literary landscape, the characteristics of the typical reader, and the general expectations of readers. The 1919 publication of The Sheik, for instance, and that of Rebecca one year before the beginning of the Second World War bring to light

the status of these romances—and, to a great extent, the modern romance genre which they helped to create—as a product of the interwar period, an epoch saturated with both the physical violence of modern warfare and the ideological violence of authoritarian politics. A fascination with the power of strong, violent men is visible everywhere in the popular culture of the period: in the cult of the gangster, the rise of the western movie, the phenomenal popularity of increasingly violent ‘hard-boiled’ detective fiction and—at the very end of the period—the appearance of the

15 Such a label would be placed on her because “her wicked ways would leach the very manhood from her unfortunate victim” (Ide). 16 Gone with the Wind (1936), the most popular work of the period that saw the greatest growth of the romance novel, attests to this.

superhero, a figure so steeped in the culture of authoritarian violence that he can solve all the world’s problems by punching people in the face. (Crawford 45)

As appealing as these new male models grew to be, Crawford underlines that, “[u]nlike popular media aimed at men, romance fiction did not generally celebrate male violence as sufficient in itself”; instead, they insisted on interdependence (if not co-dependence), modelling and thereby solidifying the belief “that even the manliest of men was better off with a loving wife by his side” (47). Nevertheless, the violence depicted in these fictional episodes became glamorised and, furthermore, eroticised, “reflecting this extremely widespread interwar preoccupation with the appeal of authoritarian power” (47).

Considering the changing times as well as the immense variety of tastes of the romance novel’s ever-growing audience, not all readers wished for the same roles to be represented—even in the beginning but especially today. In the undead romances of the period that I study, in Italian and English novels alike, the more typical conventions of romance literature are not always explicitly respected (these will be spelled out subsequently in this introduction and in the following chapters). Indeed, one might expect that, to allow for the forgivable act of deviance of including a fearsome immortal male lead in the undead romance, romance formalities would be more strictly followed to restore some sense of balance; instead, the opposite, in many cases, is true.

To start with, as the paranormal romance developed, significant societal transformations repositioned “a variety of former outsider groups as being […] ‘just like us’17 […] and stigmatized their persecution” (Crawford 7), inspiring the sympathy that humans felt toward any othered being—fictional or real, undead or mortal. Before the vampire was viewed and accepted as “just like us,” his or her status as an outsider was rooted not just in the common juxtaposition of Good and Evil but also in the identification, in the vampire other, of the human’s most reviled and repressed character traits (Hollinger 148), and this opposition is “central to romance narratives” (148). Veronica Hollinger indicates that, in Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897), “the sinister Count is the enemy in one version of the eternal battle between Good and Evil [and] [t]his opposition […] is always constructed upon specific ideological foundations” (148). Furthermore, Hollinger specifies that, according to Fredric Jameson in his examination of

17 “[W]here ‘we’ are assumed to be white, Western, heterosexual, Christian or agnostic, and middle class” (Crawford 7).

“magical [romance] narratives,” the Other is not “feared because he is evil; rather he is evil because he is Other, alien, different, unclean, and unfamiliar” (Jameson 115 qtd. in Hollinger 148). Crawford summarises the final form of this metamorphosis, “[t]he transformation of the horror-monsters of classic Gothic fiction from fearsome destroyers to loveable, misunderstood romantic leads,” as reflective of real societal values and the new good/evil dichotomy (7).

3.3 What Once Was One Became Separate to Become One Again: from Adventurous Stories, to Romances, to Undead Romances

The aforementioned studies regarding the vampire romance are written in English and are based on this literary phenomenon in the English-speaking world; as a result, these analyses cannot necessarily be taken as universal. One must recall that the epoch in which the transformation of this literary genre took place does indeed reflect the cultural environment in which the novels began to gain attention and traction, but one must also bear in mind that the nations in which these stories are read do not necessarily share the same views and expectations on romantic love—that is, romantic love in Canada and in Italy do not necessarily entail the same expectations. “The outsider,” then, and how he or she is depicted or accepted in Canada or the United States may not have the same connotations as “the outsider” in Italy or other Western- European countries. As a result, it may be that, because of disparities in tolerance or acceptance of outsiders in Italy versus such attitudes in North America, for instance, the undead-romance niche may have taken longer to solidify. While this is a tangential interest of mine and certainly deserves in-depth exploration, this subject is beyond the true scope of this thesis, whose primary focuses are language and style.

Italy also lacks the rich Gothic tradition that was married to the romantic genre in the United Kingdom and North America, and, thus, Italy inherently lacked the ingredients that would lead to a paranormal romantic genre. Still, Crawford notes that elements of courtly love, or amor cortese in Italian and fin’ amor in Occitan, exist alongside the overarching theme of war in the Chanson de Roland, the anonymous 12th-century epic poem written in French vernacular. While it was not altogether unusual for magic, love, and war to commingle in Medieval or Renaissance texts (Crawford points us to Spain’s Don Quixote de la Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes three centuries later), when examining the recent works of supernatural-themed romance fiction, we ought to consider not “how stories of love and the supernatural came to coexist within the same

12 genre; rather, we should investigate how it came to pass that, after five centuries of unity, they ever came to be separated” (Crawford 12). And this is a question just as valid for Anglo-Saxon countries as for non–English-speaking locales.

4 From Gallows Literature to the Infallible Recipe of Love and Death

If we fast-forward to the 18th century, heroes and heroines “living in a recognizable, realistic present” (Crawford 13) became the norm in romance fiction; the characters were featured as ordinary people. Despite the progressively more relatable and realistic storylines,

the genre of romance came increasingly to be dismissed as suitable only for the ignorant poor, who were thought too credulous to understand the difference between the pointless fantasies fashioned by earlier, more superstitious centuries and the realistic, educational novels by which they had now come to be displaced. (Crawford 11)

The superstitious nature, the credulousness, the thirst for drama of the lower socio-economic classes would have favoured the spread and popularity of the romance novel and of the Gothic romance as literacy increased amongst these classes. Still, literacy was not necessary for a literary genre to flourish, as the medieval Italian cantare demonstrates. The more recent phenomenon of the letteratura da patibolo, or “gallows literature,” inserts itself amongst the genres that share traits with Gothic literature (and its inherently dark themes of death and regret, for instance) and the tradition of the romanzo di formazione, which traces its roots to the medieval exempla. The exempla contained a “pedagogismo esplicito” (Ricci 293), which was also featured in these gallows stories: “Intrisi di tristo moralismo, questi ‘specchi di paura’ […] hanno solleticato per secoli, a vantaggio delle vendite e con intenti di volgare ammaestramento, una primordiale sete di sangue” (Ricci 293).

Similarly, in the English-speaking world, but for a different audience, the 18th-century novel tradition inaugurated by Samuel Richardson, amongst others, tried to show the value of good sense and responsibility over “grand passion,” which could “lead young people—especially young women—very dangerously astray” (Crawford 14). Romance novels hereafter continued to exploit the types of lessons vital to the patibolo stories and the later English novels in (less

13 morbid) romantic situations, including demonstrations of how young ladies ought to behave in monogamous heterosexual relationships.

Why is letteratura da patibolo interesting to our study, though, from linguistic and stylistic standpoints? These writings featured

le patetiche confessioni dei condannati a morte, vendute il giorno stesso dell’esecuzione, [ed] erano solo una fetta di una più grande produzione morbosamente concentrata su spaventosi episodi di cronaca nera nella quale le gesta dei criminali sembrano consumarsi assai spesso nella vita quotidiana e familiare. (Ricci 293)

This genre was popular from the 1500s to the 1800s—thus, it had a long tradition—and provided delicious fodder for its “desiderosi lettori” (Ricci 293), a large proportion of whom were, in fact, illiterate. Their illiteracy is recognised and accommodated via “richiami all’udito come senso privilegiato di ricezione (‘voi udirete’, ‘sentirete’, ‘sentite e stupite’)”; indeed, these texts were typically read aloud in public (293) and lexical and syntactic characteristics needed to be simple for the mostly uneducated public. The audience and content of this gallows literature was also much like that of the fogli volanti of the 1500s and—despite the 400-year gap that saw a distinct transformation of what beings or acts were perceived as “monstrous” by audiences—the dispense and fascicoli of the early 1900s. In the former, “[a] beneficio dei destinatari, molto spazio [era] concesso alla cronaca mondana (cerimonie e feste), alla descrizione di prodigi e calamità (terremoti, eruzioni vulcaniche),” and, most notably, given our paranormal context, “agli avvistamenti di ‘mostri’” (Ricci 291); in the latter (that is, in dispense and fascicoli), “[s]i puntava, come sempre, su sentimenti forti e su ‘racconti macabri e violenti, patetici e sentimentali, nei quali l’onestà trionfa sul vizio, il bene sul male’, ecc.” (294). The tastes of the public were transmuting, evidently, and were starting to become cemented; that is, macabre tales pleased most audiences, but only in the cases in which good triumphed over evil (and, thus, a lesson was evident).

This kind of triumph exists in the undead romance as well, though in a distorted, opposite sense compared to literature that features the undead as the evil enemy: “good” becomes a more relative, fluid concept, as the vampire-killer (that is, a hunter of vampires) is often the evildoer in these fictional worlds, however noble or justified the hunter is. Meanwhile, the vampire, prey to the hunter, is seen as victimised, vulnerable, and even virtuous in his life-protecting habits. Indeed, the audience “roots” for the introspective, gentle vampires who opt to not kill humans for

14 sustenance; these same blood-drinkers peacefully and often secretly cohabitate with humans, some of whose habits might exceed the vampires’ in violence and grotesqueness. The aforementioned perverse triumph of good over evil is exemplified in the fact that Meyer’s benevolent vampires in the Twilight series fight their blood-lusting impulses by following what they ironically call a “vegetarian” diet—that is, they hunt non-human animals for their blood rather than feed on unwilling humans (Day 30–31). The Cullen family’s patriarch, Carlisle, is even a well-respected and highly praised practising surgeon.18

As stated earlier, mainly women, young women, and adolescent girls make up the audience for these works that are “contaminazioni,”19 that is, these newer versions and hybrids of other genres, such as “chick-lit” (a term used also in Italian, with “lit” being short for “literature”), which is an update of the traditional rosa, and “teen-lit,” an evolution of 19th-century series for young people (Ricci 284).20 Crawford sums up the tastes of the female audience with regard to the contemporary vampire romance with some detail:

[T]he nightmare scenario of the earliest Gothic novels, in which vulnerable young women fall into the clutches of lustful, powerful, usually southern European men, was repeatedly played out; but instead of escaping their captors with their virtue intact, these heroines instead submit to them (or are raped by them), fall in love with them and proceed to transform and redeem them through the power of their love.” (47)

Meanwhile, Sangiorgi and Venturi (110) take a more hands-on approach in preparing the succulent recipe for success of the undead romance: “La ricetta, romanzescamente infallibile, è sempre quella: AMORE E MORTE.”

18 This is yet another curious commonality between the Twilight and Mirta-Luna series, the latter of which features a female mentor who is a zombie surgeon. These roles point to these creatures’ shared moral quandary of having predatory impulses that they can scarcely control and a simultaneous desire not just to inflict no harm but also to help and heal: “these vampires [or undead humanoids], who deny their bloodthirsty nature in order to avoid becoming monsters, provide a model of appropriate action—or, more precisely, inaction” (Day 31). 19 “La paraletteratura, inoltre, è disponibile alle contaminazioni e alle nuove accessioni, oggi rappresentate dalle emergenti tendenze dai modaioli nomi inglesi […]” (Ricci 284). 20 “[A]lla paraletteratura appartengono i testi narrativi diretti a soddisfare la richiesta di un predefinito pubblico di riferimento, circoscrivibile per sesso, età e interessi,” Ricci explains (283), as the chick-lit and teen-lit subgenres (and their very names) demonstrate.

5 The Status of the Italian Vampire, from the Late 1800s to the New Millennium

While original novels on vampires featuring love and adventure have continued to be published after 2010, the number of new works landing on bookstore shelves has diminished significantly since the height of Twilight fame in 2012;21 this is the case more so in Italy than in English- speaking markets, and notably with regard to novels published by larger publishing houses, while self-published works continue to abound.22 Though our feet will be firmly planted in the first decade of the second millennium for this study, let us glance back to the late 19th century and early 20th century to allow us to gain better footing in our understanding of this hybrid literary creature’s parent genres.

Despite a great lack of a Gothic tradition in Italy even as the genre started to appear in the English- and French-speaking worlds, Capuana demonstrated an interest in the paranormal and in animal physiology, thus producing Un vampiro as early as 1907, a hundred years before the “boom” in Gothic romance in Italy and elsewhere. But what other early works were being produced by Italian writers in Italy? Mistrali (1833–1880) published Il vampiro. Storia vera in Bologna in 1869, and what remains most notable about this is that the work predates Stoker’s Dracula by almost 30 years but follows Polidori’s publication by exactly 50: according to the biographical entry on Mistrali in the Enciclopedia Treccani, Mistrali’s Il vampiro is considered

21 While this is true, I am pleased to have learnt about a new anthology on specifically Italian vampires—the title of the anthology, after all, is I signori della notte. Storie di vampiri italiani—which was published in 2018 and contains “[q]uattordici racconti dedicati a questa affascinante figura dell’immaginario popolare, di cui in Italia si è scritto poco” (Raimondi). Edited by author Luca Raimondi, the anthology features short stories by 15 authors of some repute who “si confrontano con il […] mito [del vampiro] e la simbologia che rappresenta, reinterpretandolo e adattandolo alla contemporaneità o lasciandolo classicamente avvolto dal manto di buio e mistero che gli è consueto, trovando uno spunto per raccontarci la vita e l’atmosfera di un angolino sempre diverso d’Italia […]. […] Vengono per succhiare il nostro sangue […] ma anche per farci riflettere sulla bellezza della vita e del Paese in cui viviamo, sulle sue ingiustizie e mancanze, sul suo dolceamaro sorriso dai canini acuminati” (Raimondi). I do not study these writings in this dissertation, though I am delighted by the existence of this recently published work and am eager to dig in to these writings, only two of which are composed by women; I would like to discover, in future research, where Italian vampire fiction (romantic or otherwise) is headed beyond the threshold of the period covered in this thesis. 22 Superficial searches on online bookstores support this point.

“il primo romanzo italiano sui ‘signori della notte’”: “[riprende] peraltro uno dei suoi primi scritti di genere gotico (I racconti del diavolo. Storia della paura, Milano 1861), [in cui] narrava la storia di una setta segreta che praticava il culto del sangue” (“Mistrali”). In light of Italy’s first vampire story’s having appeared 50 years after the first anglophone story did, Fabio Giovannini finds it important to underline Italy’s tardiness in producing its own fiction on the “signori della notte”: “Anche l’Italia, a lungo quasi impermeabile alla cultura del vampiro, si è rapidamente aggiornata” (207). In fact, he continues,

[l]’editoria ha iniziato a dedicare attenzione al vampiro, le università hanno scoperto il valore della tematica vampirica. Soprattutto a partire dal 1993, grazie al successo del Bram Stoker’s Dracula di Francis Ford Coppola, ci si è accorti del fascino sprigionato dai vampiri, senza la ghettizzazione nelle sette dei cultori di gotico. (207)

The vampire as a figure in Italian literature made scant, though remarkable, appearances in the “fantasie degli scapigliati e dei decadenti” (Giovannini 208), resurfacing, then, intermittently in works of Italian literature by Enrico Boni and Capuana; or even hiding in the pages of Iginio Ugo Tarchetti and Emilio Praga; and, of course, one must not forget the nocturnal creature’s place in an episode of Italo Calvino’s Castello dei destini incrociati, in the episode of the “regno di vampiri” (208). Nonetheless, these instances have little to do with the undead romance in its current form and, thus, will not be explored in this thesis; while their protagonists are vampiric, they do not fit into the genre of the modern vampire romance.

“Ma torniamo al fatidico 1993, definito come ‘anno di Dracula’ persino dal Corriere della sera,” Giovannini explains (208). “Da allora, nell’editoria si sono moltiplicati i saggi sui vampiri, le antologie di racconti, le ristampe di vecchi testi quasi dimenticati. E anche la narrativa ha preso a considerare il tema vampirico come un tema ‘nobile’ e presentabile” (208)—a pronounced change in a country where works of fantasy and horror were considered something below or apart from literature, that is, something paraliterary (from Greek, para- “beside” [G. Petronio IX] or “‘quasi, simile a’, ma anche ‘marginale, inferiore qualitativamente’, secondo il GRADIT” [Ricci 283]).23 The term’s genesis stems from the year 1967 and points to “l’alterità rispetto alla letteratura ‘canonica’ [che] è spiegata con la priorità assegnata al meccanismo della domanda/offerta, a discapito dell’autorialità e dell’originalità espressiva” (Ricci 283). Under this

23 Further discussion on this term follows, in addition to how vampire romance and other “genre fiction” fit into this newly coined and sometimes theoretically condescending blanket term.

17 umbrella term, motley genres intermigle: “‘rosa’, ‘giallo’, ‘romanzo di facile lettura diffuso nelle edicole e nei supermercati’, antica stampa popolare smerciata in fogli sfusi dai venditori ambulanti… e così via” (283). However, it is not just economic or aesthetic characteristics that separate works of so-called paraliterature from literature that is vera e propria: what differentiates paraliterature is the alternative use of these books outside of the conventions of cultural refinement and erudition (283). Ricci confirms that print works were fundamental, of course, for the exponential growth in the number of readers of paraliterary works but also for the changing expectations of readers and, subsequently, styles of writing:

[la] crisi contemporanea della cultura classicista e delle identità linguistiche nazionali a vantaggio dell’acculturazione di massa e del mercato globale, [sono] fatti che hanno determinato una forte svalutazione del bello stile e l’attuale sbiadimento del confine tra letteratura e paraletteratura. (288)

Still, Giovannini refocuses our attention on the year 1993, an important year due not just to Coppola’s Dracula but also to the publication of a “gradevole romanzo” by famed ethologist Mainardi: “Non era una storia draculiana dedicata a qualche nuovo principe delle tenebre. Si trattava invece di Un innocente vampiro […],” he explains, adding that the principal merit of Mainardi’s work is that the author managed to avoid “ogni banalità, affrontando un tema ad alto rischio come quello dei vampiri. E ciò non significa che Mainardi innovi il genere o crei nuove mitologie” (209–210). Mainardi employs the mythologised vampire bat in his text, but he does so without recycling old clichés in unoriginal ways. I must emphasise that Mainardi’s work is not a vampire romance, but this publication in the last 25 years of an Italian work featuring vampires suggests that this potential fad has deeper roots than one might have thought previously. Furthermore, Dylan Dog, Tiziano Sclavi’s long-running comic-book series, offers past and current proof that the vampire has secured itself a place within mainstream Italian culture;24 nonetheless, like in Mainardi’s work, Sclavi’s vampires are not necessarily engaged in romantic affairs, which places these works outside of the consideration of this thesis and further ensconces the vampire as a horror lead in Italy but less so as a paramour. Indeed, the blend of horror and romance is my primary focus here, particularly with regard to the language and style used in the works of Italian literary fiction that features the romantic undead.

24 I must underline here my thanks to Marco Arnaudo for his encouraging me to investigate Italy’s familiarity with vampires through the mainstream publication of Dylan Dog. While he and I disagree on the degree to which the vampire has become “mainstream” as a romantic figure in diverse media consumed in Italy, I am grateful for his challenging perspective.

6 My Research Approach and the State of the Scholarship

In an attempt to determine whether the influence of anglophone predecessors remains an undeniable source of imitation, in analysing these works, I seek to test the hypothesis that Italian authors replicate linguistic and stylistic traits of their anglophone models. Nevertheless, I engage with this hypothesis with the understanding and hope that something greater is going on—that the impetus to create undead romances and the model followed by Italian authors come from the originality of Italian cultural and literary landscapes and do not merely or only spring from the long history of Anglo-Saxon romances. Before undertaking the meticulous analysis of each work, I provide the reader with adequate context of the plot of each book, the sub-generic category under which it falls, and other contextual notes that I deem necessary to bear in mind for a sufficient and comprehensive understanding of the linguistic and stylistic study.

6.1 The State of the Scholarship

Even in North America, few concrete studies investigate exclusively the language and style of undead-romance novels; rather, the genre and its literary traits have been the focus of noteworthy study in English-speaking countries, with scholars like Helen Bailie, Susannah Clements, Joseph Crawford, Mary Y. Hallab, and Wendy Ide devoting articles and books not just to the discovery of how the vampire became a being worthy of love and loyalty but also, to a minor degree, to the analysis of the language and style employed in undead romances. Still, with so little research in English-speaking countries, it must then follow that, since Italian literature lacks original works in this genre, studies on the language and style used therein are close to nonexistent. It is an area of research that is still very much in development, though examinations of the language employed in romance and horror or splatter25 works are not hard to find.26

25 See Chapter 2 for more on this subgenre. 26 For studies on the language and style of “genre fiction” and “paraliterature” including horror, fantasy, mystery, and romance novels, see Antonelli; Castellani; Cerrato; Ciampaglia; Corti; Ferretti; Le Guin and Wood; Lucamante; G. Petronio; Ricci; Testa; and Trigila.

The current state of the Italian scholarship finds research on this subgenre, or, rather, one of its parent genres—that is, horror—saturated with explorations and analyses of the genre’s history, reception, and interpretations. Even Giovannini, whose research sheds light on Italian works of vampire fiction in his chapter devoted to “vampirismi italiani,” neglects to inform readers on linguistic and stylistic traits in works featuring the vampiric undead. With regard to vampire literature proper, however, Il vampiro nella letteratura italiana by Giuseppe Tardiola features focused analysis on the genre (but not its language and style) and was published in 1991; another, by Ada Neiger and Guido Almansi, studies the vampire “and other seducers” in Italian literature (Il Vampiro, Don Giovanni e altri seduttori) and was published in 1998. Both of these works pre-date by close to a decade the resurgence in popularity of vampire fiction and the new, or perhaps renewed, appreciation for the undead and immortal creature as a romantic, sensitive hero.

Thus, since existing research is relatively devoid of any study devoted to the type of linguistic and stylistic traits and trends that are present in these novels—and are, at times, shared by various works and authors of the subgenre and its parent genres—I lean on the linguistic studies conducted by Nadia Ciampaglia (2014) on Francesco Mastriani and Ricci (2013) on paraliterature to serve as models on how to conduct my own research and organise my findings.

6.2 Approaching the Undead Romance via Research on Paraliterature

As we discover in this thesis, the vast majority of the novels in this genre has been published in North America; additionally, this is where many of said novels have been adapted to film (Twilight, Interview with the Vampire, and, of course, Dracula in myriad versions) and television (True Blood, adapted from The Southern Vampire Mysteries by Harris, and the eponymous Vampire Diaries by L. J. Smith) and subsequently dubbed and subtitled for global audiences. In this shifting landscape of what is attractive in popular culture, scholars have contributed to research on the appeal of the supernatural in pop culture, but they have done so without zooming in on the language and style of the content of these written works, neither for books written in English, nor for Italian ones.

The type of study in which I engage is, by pure necessity—due to the lack of research on indigenous vampire-romance literature in Italian—based on the investigations on popular literature, genre literature, or paraliterature. Gothic or horror literature and romance literature, the

20 parent genres into which the vampire romance fits, benefit from a generous breadth of research, which, unfortunately, the vampire romance lacks. The studies on the parent genres provide a useful model for my forays into research on language, style, orality (in the sense of how dialogue and even first-person narrations are portrayed in the Italian undead romance), and, in a minor fashion (if and when applicable), literary conventions specific to the undead romance.

As mentioned earlier, general studies exist on the stylistic and linguistic conventions used in paraliterary works. What is interesting for our purposes is that studies on paraliterature, first, group linguistic and stylistic traits of the genres that fall under this umbrella, and then they may differentiate between the specific genres. So, any study on paraliterature, like those of Giuseppe Petronio, Ricci, and others, includes a guiding basis of an overview of what linguistic and stylistic characteristics tend to appear in paraliterary works. These precise traits will be expanded upon in the following chapters, but, before concluding this section and proceeding to the hands- on exploration of the contemporary Italian undead-romance novel, let us better understand what paraliterature is.

Ricci defines paraliterature as “una massiccia produzione scritta, per diverse ragioni giudicata minore, allotria o perimetrale rispetto alla letteratura vera e propria” (283); it is part of the “letteratura di massa,” which involves quick, hedonistic literary consumption “specialmente congeniale ai tempi moderni (postindustriale)” (283). Contemporary paraliterary works are composed and read “for the pure pleasure of it.” For instance, Ricci, as well as G. Petronio (XXII), points to how seriality affects the titling of books in a series, in addition to the titles of chapters. Ricci cites Daniel C. Cougnéas, who lists “i tratti distintivi delle scritture di genere, ‘individuati nella ripetizione, stereotipia, univocità del messaggio, adesione alle aspettative del lettore’,” such as “adattamento verso il basso,” which, in turn, involves instances of intervening to simplify the language and make it more ordinary and trivial (284); indeed, “[l]’intenzione di attrarre un pubblico numeroso determina la semplicità della scrittura,” Ricci exemplifies (286).

6.3 Quality and Quantity: the Issue of Serial Works

The most notable trait of the paraliterary work is that of seriality, Ricci explains, a phenomenon and a process that affects the language and style of a given paraliterary work via the “tendenza alla riproduzione, nelle serie, di contenuti noti al lettore” and the “reiterazione dei titoli” (285). In our case, one need only observe the titles of Meyer’s Twilight books, which allude to lunar

21 phases and periods of the day marked by the birth or lack of light, bearing all of their inherent metaphors: Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, and Breaking Dawn. The Southern Vampire Mysteries by Harris also follow naming conventions, repeating Dead in all titles: Dead Until Dark, Dead in the Family, Club Dead, and so on. Within the stories proper, there is a “ripetizione di tipi, situazioni e discorsi che compongono quei ‘luoghi comuni’ e clichés unanimemente ritenuti i contrassegni primari” (284). Indeed, in the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna, though it contains only three works, the thematic of mortality, of blood, of the flesh recurs in the titles: Non mi uccidere, Strappami il cuore, and Ti porterò nel sangue. Meanwhile, in the A cena col vampiro series, seriality is fundamental to the comprehension of the stories composed by different authors with disparate tones and styles but that are all created “a partire da un modello di successo che genera epigoni” (284)—that is, the world of Twilight “generates” fan fiction. Furthermore, all of the books have English names and are written by authors who use pseudonyms, save for De Nicolo and her work, Porcaccia, un vampiro! Indeed, her novel, which is not a work of fan fiction, is excluded from the republishing effort by Òphiere of the A cena col vampiro series, which was re- baptised La saga della sedicesima notte—with “saga” being a notable throwback to the Twilight Saga (as the series is known) and the “sixteenth night” referring to the first book of the series, indeed an apt imitation of the naming convention employed by Meyer.

The issue of seriality and its implications may lead to the following questions: What expectations are created and encouraged by this model, and how do these manifest in the language and style of these works? Is the repetition of themes merely aesthetic or does it have more profound and perhaps nuanced effects on the language and style used throughout these series? Since some of these are works of fan fiction leaning more on romance than on horror, the most telling and superficial display of faithfulness to the conventions of romance is the use of Anglo-Italian pseudonyms and the fully English titles of the novels.27 Furthermore, in each of the books (save for Porcaccia, which inhabits a realistic universe in Italy and not the world of fantasy in English- speaking parts of Europe of the other books in the series), a manufactured letter on parchment is printed, containing an overview of the scenes that set the story in motion and serve as the backdrop that the characters share as an intrinsic part of their unique fictional universe.28

27 See Chapter 4 for more on these conventions and how they manifest in A cena col vampiro. 28 See pp. 149–151.

With regard to the publication of the undead romance, a whole other set of conventions comes into play when one thinks of translation, localisation, and adaptation of works. While none of these aspects will be a part of my linguistic study, it is vital that the present reader and the scholar of the Italian contemporary undead-romance novel bear in mind that the model emulated or simply admired by the Italian horror-romance writer has been accessed and consumed, in all likelihood, in translation. Like the romances that were first introduced in Italy via the Anglo- Saxon world or France in the late 18th century and early 19th century, the great undead-romance successes in the publishing industry at the beginning of the 21st century came from English- speaking authors. As the undead romance has remained a niche genre in Italy in much of its still- young life, the overseas explosion of the novels (and follow-up films and television shows) with vampire paramours in the early 2000s led to an urgency to translate and adapt English-language works abroad in order to mirror the (financial) success of the blossomed genre in foreign markets. “[L]a rapidità della messa in commercio, non di rado causa di incuria ed errori” (Ricci 285), increases with the prolificness of the author. “Speedy publishing” can affect the quality of the works written in the native language of the source culture but also, depending on the speed with which foreign publishers wish to have translations (or emulations) available for their own audiences, can affect the quality of the style and linguistic expression of the target-language works. This can be further complicated if there are register dynamics in the original text that cannot be mapped in a straightforward or easy manner in the target language, such as matters of dialect and languages of prestige.

To come full circle, we connect “speedy publishing” to seriality. This dissertation will also explore the effects of this on the final product. As Ricci explains, “la serialità promuove prevedibilità e la reiterazione stilistica” (285); using famed Italian novelist Carolina Invernizio (1851–1916) as an example, Ricci explains that character types reappear as tropes in the stories: the “donna fatale” and “la peccatrice,” “la regina” and “la fata”—all of these recur in her stories (285). The titles of the romance works, too, and the “caratterizzazione strutturale e semantica dei titoli, scelti in modo tale da orientare agevolmente il lettore verso il genere prediletto,” leave little to the imagination and create expectation in the readers as they proceed through a series. These literary consumers’ likes and dislikes are well known to publishers; thus, words like amore, bacio, and sogno that show up in chapter titles carefully guide the reader’s expectations (285), just like the violence of words like uccidere, strappare, and sangue influence the reader’s

23 expectations in the Trilogia’s book titles.

Finally, generally and generically, paraliterary works tend to be written according to a well- established formula, with conservative language practices and mediocre leanings, Ricci explains, “perché orientat[i] verso una varietà più accettata dell’italiano” (287). This would include the use of anglicisms, now commonplace in Italian writing as much as in speech. The manner in which English words and anglicisms are handled typographically, orthographically, and morphosyntactically varies by author and by publishing house; again, these practices are in stark contrast to the Italian trends in the 1700s, when gallicisms were the primary “speziatura superficiale” (Ricci 287) in Italian novels. Ricci points out, finally, that dialects do not often make appearances in romance or fantasy literature, but it is not altogether unusual for dialect expressions to crop up in dialogue (287), as we will see in both Palazzolo’s and De Nicolo’s work.

7 Guiding Questions

In addition to comparing and contrasting these Italian undead romances, which, while they may overlap in their genres, feature significant linguistic and stylistic differences, I attempt to explore the following questions: Are the themes and imagery in American undead romances mirrored in the Italian novels? What of the language and the literary style—is there a shared lingo for vampiric phenomena across the genre? Does Palazzolo remain consistent across her series? Does the A cena col vampiro series, a shameless imitator of Twilight and even of The Southern Vampire Mysteries, contain a style all its own that remains uniform across the works of its different authors, or is it a carefully (or less carefully) constructed mixture of stylistic and generic tropes and linguistic tics typical of romances? It is interesting to observe Gabriella Alfieri’s argument (162–163) about the long history of reusing and recycling words and expressions when she outlines the limits and uses of the “lingua di consumo/riuso” in Italian literary history:

In prospettiva nazionale, non sarà azzardato in tal senso (si potrebbe dire che i canali di trasmissione del riuso siano sempre stati di natura paraletteraria) immaginare che lo stesso

Vocabolario della Crusca costituisse per gli scriventi, oltreché una pietra di paragone dell’accettabilità normativa, un potenziale serbatoio di riuso lessicale o sintattico a partire dai cosiddetti esempi d’autore, così configurabili come lingua “alta” di consumo.

As I demonstrate in the chapters that follow, and most notably in Chapters 4 and 5, in which I explore the traits of the A cena col vampiro books, the language and style of works of fan fiction do, inevitably, invoke a bias against appreciating their work; furthermore, for those who may argue against the idea that the Italian undead-romance has anything Italian about it, since its birth and its rise to popularity are owed primarily and without doubt to the Anglo-Saxon paranormal romance, I refer the reader to Alfieri’s perceptive remarks. And just as Pietro Bembo urged writers of prose to imitate Boccaccio’s style, and writers of poetry, Petrarch’s, without resulting in a reduction in the quality, nobility, or originality of their writing—rather, the quality of their writing would be considered superior for the emulation of these men’s writings—creating works of fiction based on styles and tropes originating elsewhere should not necessarily detract from the originality and quality of the work.29 This last point is discussed in the concluding chapter of this dissertation.

Finally, as we dive in to this research, I will keep this query as a guiding beacon: What can we learn about the implications of the influence of English artistic media on contemporary Italian literature by studying the nascent genre of Italian undead-romance novels? Let’s sink our teeth in.

29 I extend my gratitude to Paolo Silvestri from the Universidad de Sevilla for his presentation on linguistic norms in Spain and in Italy at the University of Toronto on February 15, 2018. His side-by-side consideration of the grammatiche by Elio Antonio de Nebrija and by Bembo were elucidating and I appreciated his reminder that, in the Umanesimo, imitation was, indeed, the most sincere form of flattery.

Chapter 2 “Andrei nel fuoco, per lui”: the Genre and Style of Chiara Palazzolo’s Trilogia di Mirta-Luna

1 Introduction: Into Which Literary Genre Does the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna Fit?

The Trilogia di Mirta-Luna, as a literary hybrid blending romance and horror elements, cannot be called a pure romanzo rosa, or romance novel; its plot develops almost inversely with regard to the arc of expectations of the Italian romance novel and any of the subtypes described by Ricci (307).30 I would be less reluctant to classify it as a horror novel, as it borrows from this genre— and notably from the young writers of the pulp/splatter anthology Gioventù cannibale, edited by Daniele Brolli (1996)—many linguistic and stylistic traits. Unlike the Cannibali, however, Mirta-Luna’s narration moves forward motivated by the love/infatuation stories it contains, and the “cutting-edge subject matter, gritty narrative approach, and ambiguity inherent in everyday stories of violence” (Lucamante 17) present in the Cannibali is a background item in these stories. Violence permeates the books almost as an afterthought (insofar as Mirta-Luna’s meals of human flesh, given the context, can be “mundane” background information); anxiety and hedonism, planning and pining—these are the primary states of being and activities before violence is considered in this series. Still, bearing in mind Mirta-Luna’s sopramorta nature, the reader also comes to understand that killing is a pleasure for the young sentient zombie who has not yet managed to tame her instincts.

Chiara Palazzolo, though she published her first work of fiction, La casa della festa (2000), at the tail-end of the Cannibali era, was born in the same decade as many of the Cannibali writers. Her narrative style differs heavily from the aforementioned writers, yet the language employed in certain areas of Palazzolo’s narration is undeniably reflective of a conscious or unconscious

30 See these subtypes on pp. 40–41.

25 26 influence of hypermedial31 (or simply metaliterary) roots reflected also in the Cannibali; indeed, as Stefania Lucamante explains, these authors’ language “appears to be profoundly characterized by […] media, noncanonical literature, [and] film” (21)—and, of course, music.32

Shared traits with the Cannibali writers might cause one to think that there should be difficulty in finding commonalities of any kind between this Italian paranormal romance series by Palazzolo and books in the comparatively “cleaner” Italian romance genre. Nonetheless, commonalities do exist, namely when one considers a recent permutation of the romance genre that has come to be known as “chick lit.”33 Indeed, comparisons can easily be made between the standard plot of the chick-lit novel and the books that feature the early stages of Mirta-Luna’s transformation from meek mortal to impeccable immortal—all for love. Also, the romance novels in the English- speaking world that do obey the genre’s literary conventions can and often do feature the supernatural—whether the supernatural be angels, demons, vampires, shapeshifters, and even zombies—and they have been and continue to be imitated by foreign authors.

This last point is key, both in my thesis as a whole and in this chapter: I argue that, inevitably, due to the unequivocal influence of the English-speaking world’s paranormal romance on the burgeoning Italian equivalent, the Italian undead romance bears the mark of its anglophone predecessors in both its language and its style. Indeed, the rosa has been called a genere di importazione (Alfieri 234), an “imported genre,” due to the foreign nature and subsequent translated versions of the genre’s first works,34 and Alfieri further explains that the rosa’s very origins lie clearly outside of Italy (200).35 Specifically with regard to Palazzolo’s local successes, Manuela Chimera underlines the undead romance as a niche genre in Italy for much of its

31 For “hypermedia(l),” I use the definition provided in Zingarelli: “Insieme strutturato di testi, registrazioni sonore, immagini fisse o in movimento, connessi fra loro da collegamenti che ne consentono l’esplorazione interattiva” (“ipermedia”). Essentially, the hypermedial strategy involves the coexistence of, influence of, and reference to other media within the literary text. See Antonelli, Lingua ipermedia; Lucamante; Stefanelli. 32 See pp. 82–85. 33 Despite its English name, it does have a following in Italy; I will expound on this subgenre in the following pages. 34 “Sostanzialmente si può dire che la storia della lingua di consumo finisce”—strangely, as though there are no new works in this genre—“come era iniziata, cioè come lingua ‘importata’ […]” (Alfieri 234). While Italy has been producing romance works for well over a century, the rosa still bears the mark of foreign influence. 35 She explains: “Nato come filone di importazione, con la traduzione delle francesi ‘bibliothèques roses’, il romanzo d’amore si caratterizza già negli anni ’30 come genere letterario programmato da un’editoria moderna capace di individuare precisi settori di pubblico” (Alfieri 200).

27 relatively short existence, noting that, “con la trilogia di Mirta/Luna, [Palazzolo] riuscì a rilanciare sul difficile mercato italiano un genere di solito sfruttato dagli autori inglesi.”

To spice up this debate, the publisher of Palazzolo’s much-beloved trilogy, Piemme, classifies the novels as “adult thrillers” on their web site, contradicting my attempts to classify the series as chick-lit and teen-lit and alongside Meyer’s Twilight. But is the classification on the publisher’s web site enough to solidify the series’ generic nook as “adult thriller,” especially since noting— on Italian message boards and blogs frequented by young adults—that teen females are the primary consumers of this series?

Linguistically, the Trilogia fits comfortably between chick-lit and teen-lit, according to Italian standards and conventions. Alfieri suggests the rosa paninaro as a model,36 in which the unfolding romance occurs in a unified, familiar space to the reader; contains a “semplificazione notevole rispetto alle collane per adulti”; features a lexicon using verbs that are more generic than the higher-register types preferred in romances whose target audience consists primarily of adult females (for example, Alfieri offers, fece would be chosen over emise); prefers a colloquial tone throughout, including emphatic expressions and hyperbole (such as “non capisce un tubo”); and includes jargon (Alfieri 217). “In definitiva, la lingua di consumo per adolescenti si rivela più gradevole e misurata di quella per adulti,” Alfieri summarises (218). I maintain that this is where Mirta-Luna falls: somewhere along the spectrum between chick-lit and teen-lit with prominent horror elements unique to this dynamic space.

As I mentioned above, the Italian romance novel, as part of the paraliterary sphere of imported works, “può vantare una vecchia tradizione di autrici professioniste in ambito anglosassone” (Alfieri 200; emphasis added)—female writers writing for a female audience in English. Alfieri concludes that “la lingua di consumo si conferma maggiormente qualificata come lingua ‘importata’, tradotta o comunque calcata sulla lingua dei generi testuali di partenza” (204), reiterating my argument and providing the groundwork and support for my claims with specific regard to the undead romance’s style.37 It must be noted, too, that the effects of other languages

36 “Negli anni ’80 del ’900 e specialmente a Milano, appartenente a gruppi di giovani frequentatori di paninoteche e fast-food, caratterizzati anche da capi d’abbigliamento e accessori ricercati” (Alfieri 217). 37 See pp. 34–36 and Chapter 1.

28 and of translations on the target language were felt even in the early days of the rosa’s popularity, with Liala and Delly, though French rather than English was the source language imitated and translated into Italian.38

It is unsurprising, then, that the contemporary Italian rosa and its subgenres, despite the major literary successes of Italy’s homegrown talent, should once again let itself be influenced by external trends, going so far as to imitate, consciously or otherwise, the genre’s new manifestations. This is anticipated, I reiterate, given the trend from the genre’s very beginnings, and that of its parent category—paraletteratura or, less controversially, romanzo di consumo.39 This is how books like The Silver Kiss (1991) by Annette Curtis Klause (which Crawford credits as groundbreaking with regard to the crossover genre, and, much later, the Twilight series) set the stage and provided the props for the vampire, or the undead in general, to be welcomed into (mostly) young hearts. With the stage set by The Silver Kiss and Twilight and its predecessors, we find a comfortable niche for the Mirta-Luna series within the crossover genre of the “undead romance,” a blend of the contemporary romance novel, with an emphasis on chick-lit, teen-lit, and contemporary horror fiction.40

This chapter is complemented by Chapter 3, in which I analyse primarily linguistic phenomena in this series by Palazzolo. In this chapter, however, I will provide concrete examples of stylistic phenomena taken from the three books by Palazzolo; I will separate them under several stylistic categories and include an analysis of specific phenomena, seeking to compare the latter to traits in other works of the same genre. While perpetually oscillating between chick-lit, teen-lit, horror, and romance—not to mention the subgenre to horror of “adult thriller” suggested by Piemme— we will observe Palazzolo’s style in light of the general stylistic traits of the rosa as written by its most well-known Italian authors (Liala, Peverelli, Mura, Gasperini), though in a minor fashion,

38 As a result of these linguistic adaptations, morphosyntactic oddities appeared in Italian due to their direct symmetry with a French phrase, such as in the following: “È che ti voglio troppo bene!” (“C’est que je t’aimes trop !”; Alfieri 204). 39 See Chapter 1. 40 I give special thanks to Luca Somigli, of my thesis committee, for coining this clever term. I am especially indebted to him for this because I have nearly, on many occasions, fallen to the temptation of calling the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna a vampire romance, as it is often mistaken for one, even though it features zombies. Nonetheless, it shares innumerable traits with vampire romances; thus, undead romance is, doubtlessly, the most appropriate category.

29 and in light of the style of Palazzolo’s contemporaries to discover the commonalities present in, and those absent from, the undead-romance trilogy by Chiara Palazzolo.

2 Plot Summary of the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna by Chiara Palazzolo

The protagonist of Palazzolo’s trilogy, Mirta Fossati, is a recently resurrected 19-year-old from Perugia who had become infatuated with the dangerous, mysterious, drug-addicted 29-year-old Roberto “Robin” De Dominicis before her death. Robin, purportedly having grown weary of his life and the potent hold of his drug addiction, convinces Mirta that, should she choose to die with him by a heroin overdose, their love would be enough to revive them and they would meet again to live without suffering in an amorous afterlife. They would be together “fino alla fine del tempo,” as the refrain goes in the trilogy. Mirta chooses death—or death chooses her.

Before Mirta died, she led a double life because of her infatuation with her boyfriend: by day, she was a well-liked, high-achieving Literature and Languages student at the University of Perugia and the devoted daughter of a prominent lawyer and an overbearing homemaker mother (Strappami 43–44); by night, she would relinquish her friends and her studies to meet Robin to shoot up heroin in his jeep.

From the very beginning of this dark bildungsroman, in Non mi uccidere, the reader accompanies Mirta in her new life as a sentient, flesh-eating zombie as she discovers her powers, limitations, and new desires: she can fly short distances, does not age, can move rapidly, is exceedingly powerful, has a sex drive,41 is impervious to temperature changes (but not weight fluctuations), and cannot die. Nonetheless, since the only element that maintains the semblance of life animating these zombies is the consumption of live human flesh, Mirta would putrefy should she not feed for several weeks. This last trait—that of human flesh’s keeping Mirta’s

41 This is noteworthy because, in some novels featuring vampires (like Rice’s Chronicles) or other undead creatures, the undead do not and physiologically cannot have sexual relations.

30 supernatural self “alive”—is the only one loyal to horror canon; the rest appear to be inventions, or major stretches, rooted in Palazzolo’s imagination.42 Further to these inventions is the manner in which Mirta becomes a zombie, which is truly appropriate to the romance aspects of this trilogy: Mirta becomes a sopramorto, one who has “survived death,”43 simply by dying with a passionate intention to reunite with her lover and a staunch belief that their shared love would be strong enough to revive them. No disease-spreading bites and no zombie infections are suffered on the way to zombification in this series.

When Mirta awakens after her death in her funeral garb and bursts through her interred casket, she progressively leaves her past and her identity behind. Mirta learns that she is alone: the man for whom she died has not been reborn as she has; his burial site, next to hers, is undisturbed despite his promise to reunite with her after their deaths. While she waits by his tomb, she discovers that she is not alive in the conventional sense, though she is not dead either. She feels truly alone in an absolute way, in that she may be the only one of her undead kind in the world.

Mirta, throughout the series, comes to terms with leaving her future with Robin behind. Nevertheless, she searches for him desperately throughout the novels, most notably in the first, not comprehending how he could fail to meet her after death. She rebrands herself as Luna44 and soon falls in love with Sara, her undead caretaker, complex lover, and benefactor. Like in the vampire lore fashioned by Rice and others, Sara fulfills the role of “maker” by guiding adopted “fledgling” Mirta-Luna and showing her the ropes of undead life.

Thus begins Mirta’s existence in the afterlife as Luna, Mirta’s chosen undead alter ego, and thus continues the humorous while also painful discoveries she makes of her undead body and of her world; as though human puberty had not in recent memory wreaked enough havoc on her psyche and confidence, Mirta was undergoing further physical transformations that both delighted and

42 Nevertheless, it must be noted that a recent pop-culture trend to grant sentience to zombies persists. A few examples suffice: the novel Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion (2010), which saw a cinematic release in 2013; the iZombie comics by Chris Roberson and Michael Allred (2010), which led to a television series that first aired in 2014 and is going into its third season; and, most recently, the Netflix series Santa Clarita Diet (2016). 43 The term is defined for the first time on I.409. See pp. 44–47 for a discussion on the term and its contrast with opposing terms, like vivi and viventi. 44 This is perhaps pre-cognizant, though truly it is a curious coincidence with the lunar and solar phases alluded to in titles of the books in Meyer’s Twilight series: Twilight (2005), New Moon (2006), Eclipse (2007), and Breaking Dawn (2008).

31 horrified her. This serves as preparation for Mirta as she adopts her new life’s purpose: to find the man for whom she died so that they can live out the fantasy they had envisioned together. Her search does not go quite as planned, and her former lover is a mortal enemy of her own kind.

That is not to say that the wild zombie chase in the trilogy, this undead-bildungsroman horror fest, is not founded upon a tragic love story befitting the rosa; rather, the series’ adventures simply do not include the traits of the typical Italian romance novel, either from recent years or from the genre’s origins. It suffices to say that Palazzolo demonstrates a mastery of hypermedial story-telling, thus appealing to a large audience, by including in her series elements of horror, comic books, music, film, and erudite literature (both foreign and local)—after all, Ludwig Wittgenstein is Mirta’s phantom partner early in the series. Finally, love, lust, and corrupting infatuation form the fine threads that weave all of these precious elements together. More will be said on these elements in the following pages, namely in discussions of Palazzolo’s semi- contemporaries in the Cannibali.45

3 Classifying the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna: Horror, Romance, or a Blend of the Two?

Palazzolo’s close friend and journalist Loredana Lipperini praises Palazzolo’s work, characterising Palazzolo’s brand of horror as not making “concessioni a facilità di trama e lingua. La sua, anzi, è una lingua letteraria, complessa, imprevedibile nelle citazioni colte,” referring specifically, in this last part, to the inclusion of Ludwig Wittgenstein as Mirta-Luna’s phantom confidante and “coscienza filosofica” (Lipperini). Her description of Palazzolo’s writing is befitting of the classification that Piemme, the works’ publisher, uses, categorising the trilogy as “Adult Thriller” (“Non mi uccidere”), and not “Young Adults,” which is also a category on their web site. Nonetheless, I maintain that this series is aimed at young adults and, in line with Piemme’s classification, these horror and romance books are, indubitably, thrilling.

45 See pp. 33, 80, 88, 121–122, and 136.

Let us focus on the romance aspect for a moment, acknowledging first, of course, that the language and style of the rosa’s first iterations and later ones, as in Delly and Liala, differ in multiple ways from the language and style of the contemporary romance. Nonetheless, today’s romance novels have not significantly modified many of their stereotypical traits from when the rosa was first popularised. The subgenres of Italian teen-lit and chick-lit, meanwhile, appear to be significantly more dynamic and welcoming of alternative styles and topics in the content, in contrast with these books’ purely romance-novel counterparts, as Ricci explains.

She underlines the overuse of adjectives and adverbs (307) in the conventional rosa; clean, tidy language devoid of curse words (309); and a clear obeisance of conventions of courtesy, namely the use of Lei as a second-person pronoun for lovers to address each other (309), as indicative of the rosa. Folgorata and Dooley (as we will see in Chapters 4 and 5), whose works lean more on romance than on horror, remain generally loyal to these traits, in addition to including fastidiously detailed descriptions of people (Ricci 306).46 In contrast, in Palazzolo’s Trilogia, typically little is said to say a lot. Finally, as Ricci clarifies, Brunella Gasperini and her early– 20th-century romance authors wanted to make of the rosa a tool of linguistic unification (309); thus, they stuck to a standard style to attempt to achieve this lofty goal. The Mirta-Luna trilogy, however, clearly had no such goals, given its publication nearly a century after these works.

3.1 Mirta Fossati the Chick-Lit Heroine?

Chick-lit, which gained ground in the mid-1990s and is still popular currently (Ricci 310), easily encompasses several aspects of the Mirta-Luna trilogy; it is a better fit, perhaps, than teen-lit, given the violence and very explicit sexual themes that Palazzolo’s work contains. While the Italian language, can, of course, be said to be unified today, it must also be recognised that it is undergoing further changes, thanks to digital modes of communication and the ways in which we talk about them. Indeed, chick-lit (and teen-lit) reflects the language usage of young Italian adults, not prescribing usage, but, rather, demonstrating its usage by the population that employs it.47 This is not unlike the splatter stories of the Cannibali, though Gioventù cannibale is replete

46 Namely, section 2.1 in Chapter 4 (pp. 173–177). 47 Of course, unless the books are written by Italian youth, the verosimiglianza of the colloquial linguistic representations would be unlikely to perfectly reflect the language of Italian youth—which is neither uniform nor

33 with profanity and the rosa blushes at the Cannibali’s least offensive word. What is interesting about the Trilogia, however, is that it offers a seamless blending of these two worlds, so that a horrific love story can move forward amidst curse words and graphic sex and violence and still be able to be called a love story.

As described by Ricci, chick-lit features women who find themselves

in pena (ma non troppo) per il proprio aspetto fisico […]; in perenne affanno con la triade famiglia-lavoro-casa (ma senza guai seri) […]; abbastanza consapevoli da ironizzare sui propri sbagli (ma non sufficientemente solide da schivarli) […]; [alla ricerca de] l’anima gemella e una vita rosea. (310)

Indeed, as the name “chick-lit” suggests, the genre’s plots are vanilla and light. The first book of the Mirta-Luna trilogy, which includes memories of Mirta’s former life and adjustment to undead life, contains all of these elements in exaggerated, dark, grotesque forms.

I must underline that the typical plot of the chick-lit novel features a protagonist who is painfully ordinary, while Mirta, as an undead creature, is anything but. However, in Mirta’s preceding mortal existence, she leads an exceedingly normal life that closely resembles that of the typical Italian teenager; the traits that set the stage for the love that grew between Mirta and Robin were not extraordinary by any means. Thus, it is possible to insert the Trilogia into the romance subgenre of chick-lit for some of the shared aspects of that genre, though it outgrows the genre’s defining characteristics early in the series.

In the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna, each of the necessary chick-lit plot points is present: Mirta is horrified by her undead body and its destruction in the absence of meals consisting of human flesh; she cannot ever see her family or her friends again, lest they be traumatised by the vision of their supposedly buried loved one alive in front of them, yet she repeatedly frequents locales where her loved ones spend time; some scenes in the book allude to Mirta’s nocturnal visits to her childhood home and accidentally being viewed by her little brother, in addition to her being seen at her tomb and at a club by acquaintances; finally, the most important story arc of the

monolithic in its permutations. The linguistic representation of Italian youth by an adult is at best a painting of an object from memory. (See Matt’s article on Federico Moccia’s novels’ massive success with Italian youth.)

34 series is that of her search for her beloved Robin, whom she discovers she must destroy—but not without mixed feelings.

3.2 Chick-Lit and Teen-Lit Linguistics and Stylistics

Though the traits of publication seriality and a language closely reflecting the use of language that is standard to Italian youth are part of the Mirta-Luna trilogy, I am reluctant to classify this series as exclusively part of the “teen-lit” cycle. Ricci (324) describes two strategies that underlie literature for teens, strategies of publishers who wish to address the decline in teen readership: first, “[a]lcune case editrici cercano di offrire un prodotto superiore, con romanzi curati da autori qualificati,” which includes a language use that is high in register and excludes giovanilese, for instance; the second strategy reflects those who “assecondano invece le linee di tendenza — vanno con il corrente — sfruttando il meccanismo della serialità, con ripetizioni di situazioni e figure” (324).

While the Mirta-Luna series presents the exploits of a 19-year-old zombie, many of her zombie confidantes and mortal companions are, in fact, much older than she—or, rather, they have existed for longer in death than she had in life, so they do not speak like she does. Palazzolo’s novels are peppered with lexical items and stylistic examples falling under the umbrella of colloquial language, many of which fall strictly under the category of giovanilese, yet few examples fall under the types of expressions found in other teen-lit novels. For instance, the Geronimo Stilton series, by Elisabetta Danni, features a basic language that borders on one typical of comic books and includes the jargon of youth (Ricci 324); Ricci (324) provides the following example, which demonstrates orthography and punctuation that is patently absent from the Trilogia: “«Cooosa? Non lo sapete? Davvero???»”

In L’italiano nella società della comunicazione (henceforth ISC), Antonelli states that, in the “Era of Communication,” it is no longer the case that reaching the reader or listener is the most difficult task, insisting that multi-tasking is a potential barrier to connecting; rather, the task of captivating and maintaining the reader’s or listener’s flighty attention is the most challenging in achieving communication—not to mention justifying the advertising expenses that bring the communication to the receiver (113). “L’imperativo, dunque, è trattenere ovvero in-trattenere,” he summarises (113).

Enter Federico Moccia, a contemporary of Palazzolo’s who, in the early 2000s, penned three books (Tre metri sopra il cielo [2004], Ho voglia di te [2006], and Scusa ma ti chiamo amore [2007]) that achieved immense success amongst his audience primarily comprised of teenagers, who are “notoriamente ben poco inclini ad inserire la lettura tra le proprie attività quotidiane” (Matt 244). These same adolescents enthusiastically gobble up the works of Moccia, and, Luigi Matt explains, the primary reason for this is Moccia’s talent to pass, in his writing, as “one of them”—that is, a coetaneo of his readers.48 Similarly, Palazzolo, by speaking like the members of her audience, lends credibility to her characters and to her stories, despite the fantastic and preternatural world that they inhabit. Antonelli justifies that, from a linguistic point of view, specifically in the realms of television and radio, but, I would argue, in literature as well. He underlines that captivating the flighty attention of modern audiences “comporta […] la necessità di blandire il pubblico attraverso soluzioni espressive miranti ai tre tipi di effetto” (ISC 113), the last of which I would like to highlight: “Il primo […] è l’animazione linguistica. […] Il secondo […] è quello della riconoscibilità. […] Il terzo effetto è […] quello del rispecchiamento: «la radio, la televisione parla come me», deve pensare chi ascolta, «e io parlo come lei»”49 (ISC 113; emphasis added).

For the romance novel, this kind of rispecchiamento is an obvious necessity: the reader needs to see aspects of herself in the female protagonist; the romance, however far-fetched, needs to possess some realism in order to remain appealing. I maintain that Palazzolo, in her undead- romance trilogy, achieves this delicate balance: she employs the language of Italian youth, like Moccia does, for the language of her adolescent and young-adult sopramorti, and she does so while perfecting a complex yet coherent narration that welcomes young and older readers.

As previously mentioned, the reader of romance (or undead-romance) novels wants to believe that the kinds of amorous acts seen in their fiction can be realised in their own lives. Matt illuminates the immediate appeal of Moccia’s love stories for adolescents: it lies in the language

48 “[L]a ragione principale della grande passione suscitata dai tre romanzi, peraltro molto lunghi, nei ragazzi di oggi […], viene spesso indicata nella capacità dell’autore — che nonostante abbia più di quarant’anni si sente «uno di loro» — di rappresentare efficacemente il mondo giovanile nei suoi vari aspetti, e di saper parlare con le stesse parole dei ragazzi” (Matt 244). 49 Antonelli further amplifies: “Così si crea complicità, solidarietà, si accorciano le distanze tra emittente e destinatario, si gratifica il narcisismo dell’ascoltatore e si fa del personaggio televisivo quasi una persona di famiglia […]” (ISC 113).

36 of youth that the author employs. This is in addition to the fact that, amidst all the quasi- otherworldly beauty, brilliance, and glamour of the world inhabited by Moccia’s characters, these same characters suffer and love in ways that allow readers to dream and aspire to attain love in similar ways.50 This technique is probably even more useful in the paranormal romance, in comparison with other subgenres of the rosa, because two layers of distance separate the reader from the unreality portrayed in the books: the fiction of the romance, which still contains elements (albeit exaggerated) of reality, and the fiction of the paranormal, which is not and cannot be real. However, when the characters or, more importantly, the protagonist “speaks like you,” it aids to suspend disbelief and helps the reader to identify more closely to characters and situations that would otherwise be alienating.

3.3 Classification Conclusions

So, where do we put the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna? Palazzolo’s trilogy is simply a hybrid, just as Mirta, as a human, is a substance-abusing, “goodie-two-shoes” hybrid, and just as Luna, as a sopramorto, is both alive and dead and exists in perennial disgust with herself and ecstasy in her moments of carnal bliss. I believe that the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna can perfectly straddle the genres of horror and romance, both of which can and often do contain elements of the other, and both of which, as of the late 20th century, comfortably include fantastic events and characters. The Trilogia di Mirta-Luna is, thus, a horror-romance hybrid, an undead-romance trilogy, targeting chick-lit and teen-lit readers as well as horror and romance readers.

4 Coming of Age in an Ageless Body: the Trilogia and Other Undead Romances

50 But Moccia’s works and other young-adult romances still allow for vicarious fantasies as well: “Il segreto del successo di Moccia sta probabilmente proprio nella mancanza di realismo, nell’offrire agli adolescenti non personaggi in cui potersi riconoscere per come si è davvero quanto piuttosto modelli in cui desiderare immedesimarsi. […] Il meccanismo che rende così gradite le storie narrate da Moccia è, si direbbe, non dissimile da quello che fa vendere un numero altissimo di copie ai giornali scandalistici; i quali, mostrando le disavventure dei cosiddetti vip, fingono di avvicinare questi ultimi alla persona comune senza però privarli dell’aura che li circonda” (Matt 244).

In the “Comunicare per comunicare” section of Antonelli’s on-point book, L’italiano nella società della comunicazione, Antonelli introduces the subject matter with the clever statement, “Digito dunque sono” (ISC 144), a nod to the title of the previous section, “digito ergo sum,” in which he explains the mindset: “esisto perché e nella misura in cui mando (più ancora, ricevo) continuamente messaggi, perché attraverso quei messaggi mi relaziono col mondo esterno” (ISC 144). This evokes the scene in Non mi uccidere (I.104) in which the reader witnesses Mirta’s urgent desire for her cellular telephone (see below). Even in the early 2000s, she relates to the outside world via this device; she is 19, after all, and “[g]li utenti più accaniti degli SMS erano e sono senz’altro i giovani” (Antonelli, ISC 143).

In one episode in the first book, Mirta returns to her home while her loved ones are gathered around her grave; she returns home, despite the danger of being caught, “[p]erché è possibile che [la casa] sia vuota. E forse non avrò un’altra occasione” (I.102).51 She debates on taking a variety of her once-beloved items with her, including her Swatch watch (“Lo swatch!”) and her books: “Come faccio a portare tutta questa roba. E se infilassi tutto dentro al piumino? Posso usarlo come un sacco. E gli stivali della Fornarina. Sono fondamentali. Come il mio telefonino” (I.104). These are the priorities of a 19-year-old. She continues to rationalise with herself and her superego52 reprimands her (note the use of the present indicative for the hypothetical situation in the penultimate sentence): “No, il telefonino no! Sei fuori? Il telefonino! Ti localizzano in un attimo se solo provi a usarlo. Scordatene” (I.104).

The events featured in fictional texts become believable and relatable not only when they include language use that is similar to the reader’s, but also when they demonstrate daily habits that are akin to those performed by the reader as well, such as in young people’s attachment to their cellular telephones. Though Palazzolo wrote in the early years of regular mobile telephone

51 Each trait under examination from Palazzolo’s trilogy begins with a Roman numeral followed by a period and a cardinal number; the first indicates whether the quotation or trait is taken from the first book in the series, Non mi uccidere (I); the second, Strappami il cuore (II); or the third, Ti porterò nel sangue (III). The second number indicates the page number from this book. 52 I extend my gratitude to Luca Somigli for the suggestion of this term over the less adequate “subconscious.” Indeed, Mirta’s superego (whose communication is indicated in the novel in italics) informs her decisions, attempting to guide her, though often unsuccessfully, to act with decency and dignity. To reiterate, the Oxford Canadian Dictionary’s definition of the superego is as follows: “Psych. the part of the mind that acts as a conscience and responds to social rules” (“Superego”). See pp. 55–56 for more on Mirta’s superego.

38 adoption and use, her young characters were already quite attached to their devices.53 Emphasising the vanity of young people in using their cellular telephones, namely with regard to texting, Antonelli speaks on behalf of the archetypal young person, concluding that “[e]sisto perché comunico e, proprio per questo, sempre più spesso comunico per comunicare” (ISC 143).

While cell phones have become more of a constant in the books of teen-lit and books aimed at young people, changes have been afoot in the romance subgenre of chick-lit, too. Ricci indicates that, in chick-lit, “[i]l mutamento di clima [dal rosa] si percepisce, oltre che dalla tranquilla esplicitazione della componente sessuale, dalla crescente dose di colloquialismi e di turpiloquio” (31). In Mirta-Luna, curse words are frequently used, but not without Mirta’s explicit and self- conscious acknowledgment of having employed them. There is a clear progression from the innocent human Mirta to the cruel and bloody undead Luna, as the latter curses and swears while the former would never dare to.

Innocent Mirta is forced to break out of her shell (and sheltered life) in her undead existence, as she is thrown headlong into an eternal game of “kill or be killed.” She is only 19 years old when she dies and returns to life as a zombie (I.37); however, even in her mortal life, she is considered by some—namely, by Robin—to have supernatural qualities: “È una specie di fata, diceva Roberto,” Robin’s mother recalled when she first glimpsed Mirta’s lifeless pre-resurrection body. “Tutto vero, una fata. […] Una fata che forse avrebbe potuto guarire Roberto” (I.12). Later, in the absence of Robin, Mirta recalls with confidence her dead boyfriend’s high consideration and need of her: “Io sono la sua fata. E quando la sua fata lo lascerà il mondo diventerà un buco vuoto” (I.35).54

The ironic and self-conscious acknowledgment of the unlikelihood of Mirta, the weak and studious daughter of a lawyer, as a homicidal zombie is amusing in the following excerpt, where

53 This is a fact that Antonelli supports with a summary of the data on the use of cellular technology in Italy: “Un’inchiesta di Poste italiane del 2000 svolta su ragazzi di 18-19 anni rivelava che il 39% era solito mandare SMS tutti i giorni, il 9% e-mail tutti i giorni. Secondo il rapporto annuale del Censis/UCSI presentato nel 2003, il 93,7% dei giovani tra i 14 e i 30 anni possedeva un telefonino e il 60,9% lo usava per mandare messaggi (quasi l’80% tra i minorenni), il 70,6% per telefonare” (ISC 143). 54 The imagery evoked by the buco here is symbolic, as heroin is the drug of choice of this fatal couple, a drug that they consume by injection with a syringe that leaves a hole or mark behind on the flesh. Robin’s life without his fata would become as empty as the flesh of a heroin addict who is without the drug to which he or she is addicted.

Mirta states her rejection of her previous boyfriend’s horror comic book collection: “Voleva perfino regalarmi la sua collezione completa degli albi di Dylan Dog. […] Ma non li ho voluti. Mettono troppo paura, con tutti quei fantasmi, zombie, vampiri e streghe” (I.29). The Trilogia di Mirta-Luna is an undead-romance written about a girl who is frightened of undead things, who refuses to consume fiction that features them, but she becomes a zombie and has to face, in her real life, the reality that she was too scared to face in fiction.

Palazzolo inserts an interesting reflection on the states of mind of horror fiction readers out of a wish, it seems, to self-consciously poke fun at herself as a horror-romance writer and the ironic state in which Mirta finds herself. Since Mirta is a hybrid character, it is not unusual that conflicting or opposite traits, such as her naïveté and perceptiveness, stand side-by-side. In this next excerpt regarding her ex-boyfriend’s character, Mirta challenges her friend’s negative opinion of the horror fan’s psyche: “[N]on ce lo vedevo proprio Francesco in agguato in una strada buia con un coltello in mano. Anche se Veronica sosteneva che uno così fissato con Dylan Dog non può non avere una mente turbata” (I.31). In the end, it was Francesco who never would have harmed Mirta, and Mirta had read this ex-boyfriend correctly; instead, however, it was her chosen mate, Robin, who would end her life.

There are other references to zombies and to the horror genre that further underline Mirta’s lack of exposure to the genre; I believe these to be part of a humorous, self-aware commentary by Palazzolo, as in this example: “Ma papà mi sparerebbe. Caricherebbe il fucile e mi aprirebbe una rosa di pallini in mezzo al petto. E io gli direi: papà, non ricordi che sono morta? Non posso morire per la seconda volta. Come quei film sugli zombie di cui ho visto solo i trailer […]” (I.105). Despite her naïveté, Mirta is conscious of her nature and her unsettling zombie attributes.

Later, Mirta and an off-season hunter happen upon each other in the forest as she is emerging from a lake. Traits about her disturb this man who sees a girl emerge from frigid February waters seemingly unaffected by the hypothermic temperature: “E io lo turbo. Perché c’è qualcosa di sbagliato in me. Non ho la pelle d’oca. Non sto rabbrividendo. Sono bagnata fradicia e me ne sto tranquilla a piedi nudi sull’argine, con una temperatura che non supera lo zero” (I.228). This is a common characteristic of the undead, that is, they are unaffected by or impervious to the elements. Additionally, she remarks that he commands her, “Sta’ ferma,” and she notes to herself that the man’s exhortation resembles a line from a movie. As Mirta reveals often in this first

40 book, she had led a sheltered life and, as a result, many of her experiences are based on what she had viewed in movies or heard about from her friends. “Sta’ ferma,” the hunter repeated. “Come un film inceppato. Una frase da film. Ma oltre a questo, non sa cosa fare” (I.228), Mirta observed, the predator sizing up the potential prey. As the “frase da film” betrays and forebodes—as in horror films whose characters are “scared stiff” before inevitably falling prey to a monster or killer—the hunter, albeit armed, is helpless and motionless.

While the man is immediately convinced and fearful of Mirta’s preternaturalness and otherworldliness, the wild, carnivorous creatures around Mirta casually acknowledge the evidence of the girl’s changed nature:

E il gatto non ha fatto caso a me. […] Gli animali sentono qualcosa. Credo che percepiscano come un’assenza, in me, che non li mette in allarme. Mi trovano innocua, insomma. O forse è la mia mancanza totale di paura. O di umanità. (I.232; emphasis added)

That these animals pay Mirta no heed is a demonstration of their unspoken understanding that she is of no threat to them; they are not her prey, nor is their prey her prey. She is amongst new kin, a non-human and inhuman predator who feeds on humans only.

4.1 The Trilogia di Mirta-Luna versus the Rosa and “Vamp-Lit” Imports

The canonical Italian rosa, a form of literature blending love stories with adventure, is meant to be consumed quickly by its female audience—thus, a genere di consumo, as it is characterised by Alfieri.55 Considering the plot of the trilogy,56 all of Mirta-Luna’s elements fit the rosa mould, as described in Chapter 1 of this thesis—that is, up until Mirta’s resurrection. In this section, I situate the Trilogia within the genre of the rosa and compare it to other works that straddle the genres of romance and horror, such as the Twilight series by Meyer.

Ricci explains that there are four types of the rosa,57 but regardless of type, the ingredients in such novels are the same:

55 See her chapter on “La lingua di consumo”; also, see Chapter 1 of this dissertation. 56 See pp. 29–31. 57 The four types are as follows: 1. classico (the “edulcorato conflitto uomo-donna,” such as in the novels by Liala); 2. trasgressivo (like the novels by Mura, the pen name of Maria Assunta Giulia Volpi Nannipieri); 3. pedagogico

competizione tra “femmine fatali” e “madonnine infilzate”, il progressivo contatto tra i sessi dall’iniziale scetticismo fino al lieto congiungimento (matrimoniale o carnale); la netta ce[n]sura, anche in tempi recenti, di temi proibiti come libertinaggio, omosessualità e prostituzione. (307)

While featuring instances of the romantic doubt and competition present in the rosa, the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna also contains all of the ingredients “prohibited” from the typical romance novel; in fact, later in the series, a lesbian sexual relationship is a prominent plot point. As the English- speaking world’s vampire literature boom began in the late 1990s and flourished in the early 2000s, readers gained access to a world blending vampires and love, savage sensuality and hedonistic, mostly heterosexual romance. It is at the tail end of this period that the Trilogia was published and, despite the series’ being completely devoid of any vampiric creatures, was marketed alongside the more popular “vamp-lit” imports from North America, like the Twilight series by Meyer.58

“The early paranormal romance was a strikingly American genre,” Crawford proclaims. “Its parent genres had been much more international,” he continues, “with British, Canadian and Australian writers all making important contributions to the anglophone romance and horror fiction of the 1970s and 1980s” (63). Nonetheless, the initial burst of paranormal romances was composed and published in the American environment, and Crawford surmises that “the relative size and adventurousness of the American publishing industry […] made it more willing to experiment with new and untried subgenres than its smaller British, Canadian and Australian counterparts” (63). This is verified by looking only at three recent literary successes: the Vampire Chronicles by Rice,59 the books-to-television Southern Vampire Mysteries by Harris, and the books-to-film Twilight series by Meyer—all penned in the United States by American women.

(such as the books featured in the series “Biblioteca delle signorine” by the Salani publishing house); 4. and the rosa serving as a training tool (Luciana Peverelli’s and Brunella Gasperini’s books are valuable examples; Ricci 307). 58 Anne Rice’s The Mummy, or Ramses the Damned, published in 1989, was “the first best-selling paranormal romance of the modern era” (Crawford 60), and although it was a romance novel, it was classified as horror. 59 Three of these had later cinematic representations: Interview with the Vampire (1979) saw a Hollywood version in 1994, and The Vampire Lestat (1985) and Queen of the Damned (1988) were blended to make Queen of the Damned (2002), which, unlike its cinematic predecessor, bombed in the box offices.

If the undead-romance genre is primarily one that has its origins in the English-speaking world, with its most recent permutations originating in the United States,60 then we could also talk of the undead romance the way we talk about manga outside of its country of origin, Japan—that is, both genres contain a “lingua delle traduzioni” (Antonelli, ISC 132). Indeed, while manga graphic novels written in English, for instance, have their linguistic and cultural origins in a foreign country, modelling the language and style of a genre on those of a particular culture is not a new idea, as Alfieri explains, pointing out that the native literature of various Western European cultures have provided models for other cultures to emulate.61 If Italians are writing original works of undead romance in their native tongue, whom are their models but the “pioneers” of the English undead romance—the perfect blend of horror and romance, of nero and rosa? Even if the influence is not conscious, it could certainly be indirect if these horror authors are reading the writings of other Italian horror authors.

4.2 Romance Clichés and Identity Crises: Notable Episodes in the Trilogia and Innocent Mirta’s (D)evolution into “Dark Lady” Luna

The Trilogia di Mirta-Luna, as a young-adult undead-romance novel, contains moments showing the depth of the unbridled, naïve passion of youth. Early in the series, when readers learn about Mirta’s relationship with Robin, they see the mutual devotion: she says that she would walk through fire for him, and he for her (I.27–29). She even did drugs for him, despite her professing how she hated them (referring to heroin, she says, “[l]a odio” [I.35]), how she could not bear to see the needle, and she could not even inject herself. She foolishly did all of this because “non c’era altra strada per cementare il nostro amore” (I.35).

60 “[T]he first paranormal romances were almost entirely written by Americans” (Crawford 64). 61 “[L]a lingua di consumo si conferma maggiormente qualificata come lingua ‘importata’, tradotta o comunque calcata sulla lingua dei generi testuali di partenza […]. Da quanto si è visto, lo studio della lingua di consumo investe in pieno la problematica della traduzione, anch’essa fenomeno di consumo culturale. […] In tal senso, si potrebbe individuare una lingua leader in base al genere di volta in volta trainante a seconda delle mode o delle ideologie culturali: “-spagnolo: romanzi chisciotteschi o picareschi nonché romanzi d’appendice “-francese: romanzo satirico settecentesco, romanzo d’avventure ottocentesco, nonché romanzo per signorine di Delly “-tedesco: genere superomistico del periodo fascista “-inglese: genere nero e rosa” (Alfieri 204).

In this story, it quickly becomes evident that their love is unbalanced and unequal, that she always has more to lose than he does. We can see this from this statement: “Sarei morta per lui, quando nemmeno mi conosceva” (I.33). She had loved him for years before even dancing with him on that first night in the bar and she believed that she could cure him and tame him with her love; indeed, a standard romance trope is the heroine’s illusion of control.62 Mirta’s position fits this unfavourable power dynamic perfectly, as Crawford succinctly demonstrates:

The traditional formula romance plot demands a heroine who begins the novel at a massive disadvantage in comparison to the hero—smaller, younger, weaker, less wealthy, less powerful, less socially and sexually confident—but who, by its end, has miraculously managed to level the playing field […]. (84)

On I.23 and I.24, Mirta explains her tremendous fear that some other girl would steal Robin; she wonders how girls do not simply snatch him up. She does not feel deserving of him: “Sono in panico quando parte. Non solo per le altre ragazze. Ho paura che faccia la cazzata” (I.28). This is classic romance.

When Mirta reflects with incredulity on the fact that Robin wanted her, she creates distance from herself, transforming her first person into a third-person stranger; she needs to step back and observe in order to understand: “Robin mi voleva. Voleva proprio Mirta” (I.31). In fact, she believes that Robin may be fooling her, though, at the same time, she is certain that he is not— but this certainty did not result without some convincing on his part:

[M]i sono venuti un mucchio di dubbi. Che Robin mi stesse prendendo in giro. (I.31) Lui voleva stare con me per sempre. Non so neppure come ha fatto a convincermi, che era tutto vero. (I.32)

Ultimately, Mirta simply does not trust Robin because of his nature and not just due to jealous insecurities: “Gli credevo, quando mi diceva che non mi avrebbe lasciata più. Ma non gli credevo quando diceva che non si sarebbe bucato più” (I.33). And she was right: he killed her with faulty drugs as a result of a twisted pact that he made with his mother (who, we discover, played a vital role in the youths’ deaths):

62 “Women love stories that reaffirm the idea that deep down, they have the power to tame even the wildest animal and redeem even the worst man. That, I think, is the core appeal of the paranormal romance. We are talking here about bad boys who are so bad that even God has given up on them. But we [i.e. heterosexual women] have the power to save them, if we just love them enough” (Bruce and Karen Bethke qtd. in Crawford 82; parenthetical addition by Crawford).

È stata una decisione che abbiamo preso insieme. […] [E]ra basata su una doppia promessa. Quella che Muriel ha fatto a Robin e quella che ha fatto a me. Cioè che poteva bucarsi, sì, ma solo se lo faceva con me. Se lo faceva anche a me. Era questa la promessa. (I.33)

Comparable loyalty pacts are made by vampire romantics, who solidify a bond of love and fidelity in the following way: the vampire (usually the male in a heterosexual romance) changes the human woman into an immortal vampire; similarly, Robin alludes to defeating death and protecting their love from the hazards of life and the influence of Mirta’s well-meaning family and friends by dying. In death, they could “[m]ettere al riparo l’amore dai rischi della vita”: “Robin voleva morire. E rimanere con me. Per l’eternità” (I.35). After the last time that they “shoot up” heroin together, they close their eyes indefinitely, though Robin is the only one who truly knows what he is doing. Mirta replays the scene:

Avevo gli occhi chiusi. Non volevo vedere l’ago. Ero terrorizzata. Qualcosa non andava. Ho pensato che mi avrebbe squarciato il braccio. Non so cos’ho pensato. Ho chiuso gli occhi e lui ha detto: ritorneremo. La volontà è più forte della morte. L’amore è volontà. (I.36)

When Mirta rises from the dead, she wanders for significant lengths of time, not sleeping for days and not knowing where she can go, lest someone she knows see her. She does not know if she is dead or alive, whether she needs to eat or drink, whether the rising sun will be her demise. Out of desperation and panic, she wishes for death: “Vorrei morire, ma credo di essere già morta e non so dove andare” (I.38). “E la luce avanza,” she notes. “Forse mi dissolverò come un fantasma” (I.38). Despite her willing ignorance with regard to horror canon, she has a feeling already about the dawn. But she is also perceptive of her own body’s sensations: “Ma non sono un fantasma. Il mio corpo è qui […]. Però. Se siamo ancora in febbraio, dovrebbe esserci un freddo cane a quest’ora. Ma io non sento freddo. C’è un’aria fresca, carezzevole. E non sono mai stata bene come adesso” (I.38)—and all she is wearing are her funeral vestments that are not meant to protect a human body from the harsh elements.

Her observations continue: “Mi guardo le mani. Sono bianche. Ma sono sempre state bianche. Ho una pelle così chiara. Al sole mi scotto in due minuti. Il sole. Forse mi scioglierò. Nessun morto resiste alla luce del sole” (I.39). Again, the little that Mirta knows about horror fiction is her point of reference, and she willfully adopts the “rules” of horror to create her real-life conventions and expectations. She soon discovers that fact and fiction do not necessarily overlap, such as when she asserts that “[n]on si dorme, nella morte” (I.398) in response to Sara’s inquiry as to when Mirta had last slept—a response that baffles Sara. Since Mirta does not know her

45 limitations or strengths, her self-discovery in the early parts of the narrative provides a rare and often comical extended play-by-play of becoming a vampire or (psychologically present) zombie.

In some undead romances the living are appreciated by the undead as beautiful because of their fragility, their mortality, and their fear of death and old age; in these same romances, these appreciative beings are often juxtaposed with their veritable opposites, that is, those who feel contempt toward mortals and who seek to destroy them, believing them to be weak and worthless—merely meals. Mirta, though she is newly undead and still misses the comforts of mortal life, nonetheless fits into this latter category;63 we see this mirrored in Mirta’s dialogue with Witt, her superego, wherein the sopramorta develops a surprising disdain for humankind because of their putrid normalcy: “Gli chiedo [a Witt], cos’è peggio. Dice subito, la volgarità. Non la morte. Non il male. Non il dolore. Nemmeno il peccato. La volgarità. La volgarità dei viventi. Il loro essere schifosamente ordinari” (I.206).

It is worth noting here that Mirta appears to distinguish between viventi,64 using the present progressive to underline their ongoing existence and, perhaps, to juxtapose their living and her living death, and vivi (I.408) who just are and are simply alive. This nomenclature appears to suggest that the opposite of viventi would be i morti viventi—or, in Palazzolo’s world, i sopramorti—while the opposite of vivi would be morti; this latter pair seems to be merely objective and descriptive of their state. Indeed, juxtaposed with the viventi are the sopramorti, a word that is defined linguistically by Sara for the first time explicitly on I.409:

Ma dài, sono un medico. Un medico! Tu non sei una studentessa? E io sono un medico. Che c’è di male a fare il medico? È un mestiere come un altro. Ma sei morta. E faccio il medico anche da morta, come lo facevo da viva, mica uno si dimentica, dice. E non sono morta, sono sopramorta. Sopravvissuta alla morte. Okay?

However, the first mention of the word is on I.398, and on I.399, Sara explains the limitations of the sopramorti:

63 We discover that her mentor, Sara, is of the former group in most circumstances: she is a practising physician (whose patients are human) and even keeps a human housekeeper and best friend. 64 See also on I.416.

Quando sono arrivata qui, ho capito che [i benandanti]65 non credevano nemmeno che tu fossi una sopramorta. […] Cos’è una sopramorta, chiedo. Una come te, dice Sara. E scoppia a ridere. (I.398) Lo strano mondo che Sara sta svelando sotto i miei occhi. […] Di centinaia, centinaia! di morti, sopramorti, che camminano sulla terra. […] E questa Sara […] che è come me. Non respira. Non mangia cornetti. Non caca e non piscia. E che pure, è così diversa da me. Perfino più aliena dei viventi. (I.399)

To return to Mirta’s palate, one might say that she cares in theory, and somewhat in practice, about the humans she used to love, such that she would not fathom eating them to satisfy her preternatural hunger. Still, her pure physiological needs and desires override logic and sentiment, and she kills (or fears she will kill) even those she once loved (I.358). Meanwhile, non-human animals appear to be the only beings with whom Mirta-Luna truly connects: she is savage like they are and acts on instinct and reflex like they do.66 Furthermore, her self-preserving drive for blood and flesh is not turned on, so to speak, by non-human animals; only live humans satisfy her taste. A dead or dying human cannot satisfy the supernatural alimentary needs of the sopramorti, and the undead are able to identify whom is a suitable meal thanks to their amplified olfactory sensitivity: “E quando [le persone] muoiono, l’odore si spegne. I morti non mangiano i morti” (I.284).

This sensitivity is important for reasons other than nutrition in this and other undead romances. If Mirta cannot smell anything arising from a creature in her midst, this creature is either a sopramorto or is already deceased. Similarly, in the Twilight and Southern Vampire Mysteries series, there are exceptions to some senses, which indicate that a human or an undead creature is special: vampires cannot read Bella’s human mind in Twilight, and Sookie, who is a telepathic human, is blocked from accessing the brains of vampires in the Southern Vampire Mysteries, which is a relief to her and attracts her to them.67

To summarise, Mirta’s mentor makes two things clear about the sopramorti: “Siamo zombie cannibali! E [i benandanti] ci invidiano, perché siamo immortali!” (I.408). Thanks to Sara’s

65 This term is explained on p. 47. 66 On I.358, she lunges at Paco without thinking when her cat—whom she has designated as “Ophi,” the name of her family’s cat—is threatened. 67 The attraction is mutual, but for different reasons: Sookie is part fae, and fairy blood is irresistible and even intoxicating to vampires in this series.

47 explicit guidance and Mirta’s own experience, we know that the sopramorti eat live human flesh; they need sleep; they do not breathe, cry, vomit, defecate, or urinate (yet, somehow, they can and must drink water); they have no pulse or beating heart; they are immortal but can pass as human; and they are perennially hunted by a group of mortals called the benandanti.68

Mirta-Luna acknowledges its horror heritage in many ways, other than by simply featuring zombies; it also references other supernatural beings, such as the very vampires of which the series is completely devoid.69 In the first night of her transition, Mirta carefully makes links in her mind to the little knowledge of vampires that she has, wondering about sunburns and acknowledging that she might, in her undead guise, suffer or die in the sun.70 Later, she finds herself in the sun and, like Meyer’s vampires, Mirta is impervious to the life-giving rays—but, then again, she is not a vampire, but a rediviva: “Mi metto a sedere sull’erba. Il sole inonda il sottobosco. I raggi carezzano la pelle. Mi guardo le mani. Non sono nebbia. Non si stanno sciogliendo. […] Il sole non mi dà fastidio” (I.54). In addition to being unharmed by sunlight, Mirta can fly, a trait that she continues to appreciate as one of the virtues of undeath: “È questo,

68 They are first introduced via a written enigma on I.286 and again on I.297: “I benandanti ti augurano un buon andare.” Essentially, in this series, they are human telepaths who believe that the sopramorti should not exist and they seek to destroy the undead: “I benandanti sono vivi. E vanno a caccia di sopramorti” (I.403). Furthermore, they envy the undead, as Gottfried, the leader of the sopramorti, is said to believe: “I miliziani della paura, li chiama Gottfried. Ma puoi chiamarli come vuoi. Cacciatori di streghe. Ammazzavampiri. Acchiappafantasmi. Inquisitori. Non sono che cani rabbiosi intrisi di invidia. Darebbero l’anima, per diventare come noi” (II.59). This is an interesting interpretation of the historically verified benandanti, or “good walkers,” of Friuli, whom Carlo Ginzburg studied in depth in I benandanti. Stregoneria e culti agrari tra Cinquecento e Seicento (the English translation, by John and Anne Tedeschi, is from 2011: The Night Battles. Witchcraft and Agrarian Cults in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries). From the introduction to the translation of Ginzburg’s work, I include the following explanation of the actual benandanti, who share notable traits with Palazzolo’s—that is, they are human, they are exceptional, and they have noble, benevolent goals in their fight with supernatural beings: Some time in the late sixteenth century the attention of a perplexed Church was drawn to the prevalence of a curious practice in the region of the Friuli, where German, Italian and Slav customs meet. This was the ritual association of the ‘good walkers’, a body of men chosen from those born with the caul, who fell into a trance or deep sleep on certain nights of the year while their souls (sometimes in the form of small animals) left their bodies so that they could do battle, armed with stalks of fennel, against analogous companies of male witches for the fate of the season’s crops. They also performed cures and other kinds of benevolent magic. […] Ginzburg argues that theirs was a fertility ritual once widespread throughout central Europe, but by this period perhaps flourishing mainly in marginal regions such as the Friuli […]. (Tedeschi and Tedeschi IX) 69 See the quotation regarding Mirta’s observations on her vampiric pallour on p. 44. 70 This is related to the technique of the inquadratura in soggettiva, which I examine briefly on pp. 81–82.

48 il bello della morte. Questa libertà. Che cosa sarebbe la morte, se non potessimo volare?” (III.92; emphasis in original).

To switch gears for a moment, but staying in the realm of Mirta’s “devolution” into a darker version of herself, it must be said, first, that few items in the contemporary novel are morphologically interesting or important. Still, there are several phenomena that I would like to examine more closely from Palazzolo’s trilogy with regard to anthroponymic suffixes, notably the symbolic use of the diminutive -ina by others to designate a Mirta/Mirtina that is innocent and sweet, a version with which Mirta cum Luna does not care to be identified.

On I.338, Mirta’s name not only is rendered in the diminutive, but it is rendered a noun with a lowercase m and preceded by a definite article: “Come la mirtina scema delle favole.” I argue that this is not a case of mere typographic negligence but a concrete way to indicate a genericising of Mirta’s very identity. Furthermore, another instance of mirtina appears with an indefinite article and still with a lowercase m: “Una mirtina dal cuore d’oro” (I.379). These can be contrasted with the more commonly used vocative, Mirtina, without articles and with an initial capital to underline its proper-name status: “Cristo, Mirtina, dice lui” (I.350). Mirta fervently resents this nickname, as she demonstrates on I.328: “Mirtina. Non mi hanno mai chiamata Mirtina. Chi l’aveva tirata fuori, questa Mirtina? Di cosa parlavano, perdio!” Mirta is surprised the first time that Paco calls her by that name, as he and Robin had never used it to her face.71

This Mirtina is yet another facet of the multi-faceted Mirta-Luna: “E non ho idea, di come potrò dirlo a Robin. […] Di quello che ha detto Paco. Che non dubito abbia mescolato verità e menzogna, dandomi una vulgata qualsiasi. Una versione per Mirtina, una per Mirta, un’altra per Luna” (I.369). This confirms that not only are there two sides to Mirta—Mirta and Luna—but a third one exists: Mirtina. She is the innocent, naïve, young, over-protected version of Mirta, as can be seen from the excerpts in which Mirta or other individuals use that name:

Povera povera povera Mirtina. Mirtina pallina del suo papà […]. (I.68) Mirtina era tutta casa e scuola. (I.329)

71 See quotations on p. 80 in which Paco uses the affectionate and perhaps even patronising nickname off-handedly.

Paco ride. Dice: dove sono finiti i tuoi libri, Mirtina. (II.12) È Mirta che li attira. La piccola Mirta. Dolce, ingenua. Mirtina. (II.28)

Mirtina is Mirta in the eyes of others: for instance, Paco calls her Mirtina because her innocence and out-of-reach nature were the parts of her that intrigued him—but which also, initially, had him and Robin rethink their attraction to her and re-evaluate their morals. Along the continuum of Mirta’s personality and essence, Mirtina and Luna are at the extreme opposite ends, with Mirta mediating between the two and faltering toward one or the other despite herself.

Mirta acknowledges the many sides of the same coin with regard to her diverse personalities: “Non sento dolore. Niente. Solo la voglia di spaccare questa dannata lapide e tirar fuori Robin. Restituirlo a Mirta, a Mirtina, a Luna, a tutte le donne che si agitano senza fine dentro di me, e vogliono lui” (I.370).72 In this scene, she denies none of these sides of herself; she acknowledges all of them and the multi-faceted and ever-mutable nature of her womanhood and (in)human form. In other scenes, however, depending on which trait she needs most to survive in a given circumstance—the recklessness and fearlessness of Luna, the sentimentality of Mirtina, or the close ties to friends and knowledge of Mirta—she evokes one persona and firmly rejects the others.

The diminutive accentuates the presumed, perceived, or imposed purity of Mirta and her desirability in the eyes of males. It is insinuated that these men, competing lovers, spend all their time thinking about the innocent female protagonist; her name rolls off their tongues and roils within their minds effortlessly, and they add a diminutive suffix to the paramour’s name to indicate their emotional captivation by and their physical dominion over her. This infuriates undead Mirta: “Tutto il dannato tempo a parlare di me! Di cosa dicevo e cosa facevo e come lo facevo. Bastardi!” (I.328). Also, as the young daughter of an eminent lawyer, Mirt(in)a becomes more desirable still—a truly forbidden fruit:

Io, dice [Paco], io ti avevo vista. E gliel’ho detto a Robin. C’è una fata, in questo paese. La figlia dell’avvocato Fossati. E lui: figurati, quella c’ha dieci anni! Una di dieci anni, mi diventi un porco. No, gli ho detto, c’avrà pure avuto dieci anni. Ma mica può averci sempre dieci anni. È cresciuta, no? Ed è cresciuta da dio. […] [S]iamo arrivati a una specie di scommessa. Chi ci arriva per primo, questo genere di cose. (I.329)

72 This reference to her diverse selves as diverse donne and not ragazze is significant and serves to further underline Mirta’s transformation and swift maturity as a result of her new independence in undeath.

These “bad boys” desire Mirta in life in her newly blossomed and mature form that still encapsulates an innocent and inexperienced girl; in undeath, little changes as Mirta attracts a “bad boy” named Mario Cerruti in her “bad-girl” garb—and she judges him negatively for it.73

Still, like many young adults, Mirta is eager to evade the overprotective grasp of her parents in her dating Robin, and, even in death, she relishes her freedom and deviance. Nonetheless, when she is faced with Paco, who knew her in her former life and loved her for her innocence, however dementedly, he causes Mirta to doubt the integrity and respect of her former lover, Robin; she ponders, “Come fai a sparare una spada nel braccio di una che si ubriaca con mezza birra? Come ti regge il cuore?” (I.370). Robin and Paco wish to maintain the mythical purity of the heroine,74 as their diminutive nickname for her indicates, yet they corrupt her by introducing her to their toxic lifestyle. Robin puts the final nail in the coffin, so to speak: he destroys her mortality with his drugs, his sexuality, and his fatal injection.

Despite all this, as she wholly embraces her Luna side, Mirta is tenacious in burying her past life and past self. She lashes out verbally, and sometimes mortally, when her undead friends and potential enemies address her with the name that she associates with the mortal life that she furiously wishes to deny:

E allora? dice Sara. Che ha combinato il ragazzino? […] Mi ha chiamato Mirta, le dico. Di punto in bianco. Gli avevo detto di chiamarmi Luna. Ma alla fine gli è scappato. Si è rilassato un minuto e gli è sfuggito di bocca. L’ho assalito subito. L’ho perfino mangiato. (I.420)75

73 Reflecting on Mirta’s inability to walk or see properly (she was weak from not having yet fed on human flesh since rising from the dead), Mario is charmed: “[…] ma che sei, un ospedale ambulante? E ride […]. Tu sei completamente fuori, dice. La ragazza più pazza e sexy che ho mai incontrato, dice” (I.143). Mirta, meanwhile, is fiercely unimpressed, calling him “lo straccio più straccio che abbia mai conosciuto” (I.131). For sociolinguistic reasons, it is also curious to note his use of the indicative mode where a subjunctive is called for in his superlative statement, while, in analogous syntactic circumstances, Mirta uses the grammatically prescribed mode. This further serves to underline the educational and sociolinguistic disparity between the two individuals and highlights Mirta’s prejudice toward him. See pp. 78–79 for more on this negative judgment. 74 Similarly, in the Twilight series, vampire Edward wants human Bella to stay human, soft, and innocent—weak, essentially, but also impervious to eternal damnation, a fate that (he believes) he had not been able to avoid. Subconsciously, he wants to maintain power, but Bella wishes for nothing more than to be with Edward forever as a vampire, to match the power, elegance, and beauty that he and his vampiric family possess and flawlessly embody. 75 In this scene, Mirta discovers that a prospective human friend had been working for the antagonists in this series, the benandanti. As a result, his calling her Mirta when she had introduced herself as Luna gave the boy’s status and agenda away.

Mirta gets upset at Sara regularly, and even at Paco, when they call her Mirta:

Apri gli occhi. Apri gli occhi, Mirta! Non chiamarmi Mirta. Io non sono Mirta. Se serve a farti tenere gli occhi aperti, sì. Ti chiamerò Mirta tutto il tempo. (I.421)

Finally, almost an entire paragraph in aggressive capital letters, framed by analogies of environmental phenomena, demonstrates Sara’s flawless understanding of Mirta’s true nature, with all sense of ego and other identities stripped away: “[S]i sfila i rayban e mi guarda. Con due occhi da gatto selvatico che gialleggiano sotto le luci al neon del bagno. E non è neppure un grido, adesso, ma un tuono” (I.407). Sara’s thunder cracks:

IO LO SO! LA CONOSCO LA RABBIA DEI MORTI! I SEPOLCRI CHE ESPLODONO! IL TUO SEPOLCRO È ESPLOSO! LO SO CHE SIGNIFICA RISVEGLIARSI CON QUELLA RABBIA! CON LA VOLONTÀ DI MANGIARE IL MONDO! I BENANDANTI, NO. LORO SONO ANIMALI, MA NON SONO MORTI. NON CI SONO PASSATI. […] CI VOGLIONO CANCELLARE DALLA FACCIA DELLA TERRA. NON CI VOGLIONO, QUI, PERCHÉ NOI SIAMO ZOMBIE CANNIBALI! E CI INVIDIANO, PERCHÉ SIAMO IMMORTALI! MA NON RIESCONO A ESTIRPARCI PERCHÉ NON CI SONO PASSATI! NON SANNO COS’È LA […] SOLITUDINE RABBIOSA DEI MORTI. E SO ANCHE […] CHE TU NON PROVI SOLO RABBIA. MA ANCHE PAURA. […] TU HAI PAURA DEI MORTI! HAI PAURA DI ME! E la voce cala improvvisamente di tono. Come un vento che cade, spegnendosi d’un tratto tra le colline. (I.407–408)

Although Sara calls her ilk zombie cannibali, sopramorto tends to be the preferred term for the redivivi or morti viventi in this series. Zombie, as the culturally more recognised term, is used pejoratively in Mirta’s understanding of herself and others like her, most often in descriptive phrases like “come uno zombie”:

[…] nessuno muore due volte, tranne Lazzaro, che però secondo Francesco non è tecnicamente uno zombie perché lui è proprio tornato in vita. […] Non è uno zombie. Tecnicamente non lo è perché gli zombie tornano sì in vita ma, fondamentalmente, restano morti. Non gli batte il cuore. Non respirano. Camminano come ubriachi. Non sono una zombie! Nessuno ha mai detto questo, Mirta. Tutti sappiamo che cosa sei. Sì. Una fantasmina. Sicuro, una fantasmina con la febbre. (I.106–107) Max sbuca dall’oscurità. Gli occhi spalancati. Il viso lacerato. Barcollando come uno zombie76 verso di noi. (II.216) Albeggiava. I primi pendolari si aggiravano come zombie di fronte alla stazione. Semi addormentati. Sognando magari di essere ancora a casa. (III.82–83) E d’improvviso lo scorgo. Pochi passi avanti a me. […] Cammina come uno zombie.

76 The irony is that Max is a sopramorto, but he is a zombie only to the untrained mind. The sopramorti do not see any link between their mindless fictional brethren and their sentient selves, so the simile here serves to underline how unlike a sopramorto Max is acting.

È uno zombie. Ma noi non camminiamo così. Solo che lui. È spaventato a morte, magari. (III.338)

Certainly, Mirta is no fantasmina, as her superego underlines when it taunts her, and she categorically rejects any connection between herself and the zombie paradigm, metaphorical or otherwise. Mirta-Luna, like many of those whom she describes as acting unlike themselves “come zombie,” is a sopramorto—one who has overcome and survived death.

5 Syntax and Style

The writing style is stream of consciousness: sentences are left unfinished or interrupted; thoughts are short; incomplete sentences, often containing but a single word, abound. Mirta-Luna calls it as she sees it. Because of her own expressed fascination with and love of the written word of her literary idols, she shows deference to language and appears to use it carefully and consciously. On I.18, a single line contains Mirta’s self-talk through her thoughts, and she jumps from one referent to another, from one temporal space to another: “Robin, dove sei. Eravamo in macchina. Muoviti, scema, alzati.” The reader experiences everything just as Mirta is experiencing it; Palazzolo avoids having to describe by allowing Mirta to explain via her present experience, as her superego exhorts her on I.19 and repeatedly elsewhere: “Vedi e descrivi.”77

With regard to a writing style befitting the circumstances of young romance, Ricci points to a representative trait of chick-lit that I maintain is representative also of the Mirta-Luna trilogy: “La sintassi è segmentata, con infiltrazioni del gergo digitale e dell’enfasi interpuntiva consona alle scritture giovanili” (310). The “segmented” syntax is the most striking part of Palazzolo’s writing; full sentences are present in the book, but short, incomplete ones surround them. “Il mezzo è sempre quello di una scrittura immediata e fitta di dialoghi,” Ricci explains (310); this is the case even in the trilogy’s initial scenes, in which Mirta is isolated from other life forms and speaks only to herself (and, of course, her superego).

77 See pp. 55 and 58.

There are many conceptual ellipses (not the punctuation mark) in this series—conceptual gaps, but also numerous formatting blanks in the form of white space between paragraphs—that the reader is expected to recognise or fill. These reflect the incomplete, non-committal thought process, the lack of closure, of this teen. Not every thought is fully formed as Mirta is discovering things; everything is in formation. The ellipses indicate the openness and murkiness of the situation:

Non posso crederci. Sono seduta in soggiorno. Non pensavo di farcela. Sono tutta ammaccata e irrigidita. […]78 Ero tornata a casa. Sono le nove di sera. Ho impiegato un tempo infinito a salire fin quassù, ma se non muoio mai devo abituarmi all’infinito. (I.113)

The paragraph that follows is tight to the previous one, with no line space separating it, in contrast with the previous paragraphs’ formatting on the page. The white space is fruitful and reveals the author’s intentionality; the emptiness and spaciousness of the lines of white as the only separations between paragraphs demonstrates the lack of boundaries of memory and nostalgia. One thought floats into the next, one memory glimmer blending with another and one verb tense morphing into another, with the spaces in between acting as the split second before the eyes blink open to a new scene:

Sono abbracciata al tronco della quercia. Vorrei piangere ma non lo so fare. […] Starò aggrappata qui finché il mondo non smetterà di avere le vertigini e rallenterà questa pazza stazione. Fin quando non rientrerà in sé. Un raggio di sole tra il fogliame. A mia mamma i boschi piacevano. Ma odia la caccia. […] Mi stendo sull’erba. Il sole mi cade addosso. Chiudo gli occhi e aspetto. Di morire di nuovo. Per sempre. La prima volta che ho visto il sole avevo tre anni. Ho alzato gli occhi verso la finestra della camera della mamma e l’ho guardato. Occhi rossi per due giorni. Tutti in famiglia ricordano l’episodio e ne ridono ancora. Nei giorni di sole c’erano sempre più scioperi al liceo. Nessuno aveva voglia di scioperare quando pioveva. Di domenica, andavo con Francesco alla Città di Domenica. Compravamo lo zucchero filato. Splendeva come un gomitolo d’oro sotto il sole. Ma Francesco era troppo infantile, non era adatto a me. Quando mia nonna è morta avevo dieci anni. Ero molto triste per lei. Ma c’era tanto sole. Tanti fiori. Mi sentivo talmente felice. Il giorno prima di morire, il tempo è stato splendido. […] (I.52–53)

78 Eight short sentences exist between these sentences.

Even amidst the tragic moments of Mirta’s life, like her very own death and her grandmother’s passing, Mirta sees the light. Indeed, the above sequence and the spaces between each memory point to Mirta’s preparation to “go into the light,” so to speak—that is, to embrace death wholeheartedly. Her life is flashing before her eyes via the recurrent image of the gracious and simultaneously life-giving and life-ending sun: Mirta, in this scene, is preparing to die again, as she believes that the rising sun will scorch her, as it would a vampire; she soon discovers that the sun only caresses and warms her. Furthermore, this list of memories underlines a part of Mirta’s personality that demonstrates what is important to Mirta, but the formatting itself, I maintain, builds the spacey, dreamy quality of reverie and memory where Mirta finds herself, and where Palazzolo invites readers to inhabit.79

With regard to the ellipsis proper (the punctuation mark), Antonelli underlines the indiscriminate use of “gli evocativi quasi onnipresenti puntini di sospensione” by those who use electronic devices for written communication—most notably young people—to portray “un’idea di continuità” (ISC 157; also, 153); he also indicates the techno-savvy generation’s tendency to “riprodurre gli intercalari di una chiacchierata (dai, guarda, uffa) o ancora rendere, con l’ausilio delle faccine, la mimica che nel parlato accompagnerebbe certe affermazioni (ISC 157).” That being said, Palazzolo’s work is curiously devoid of ellipses, despite being in the voice of a young person who had been an avid “e-mailer” and “texter.” This lends to my belief that this series may have been intended more for young adults than for teenagers.80 Even as a large number of Mirta’s expressions manifest as incomplete sentences and many thoughts are abruptly truncated, they all end with a period in the novels and continue and conclude in a new sentence, which, itself, is an incomplete sentence. Consider the following examples:

E appena ci incontriamo, cominciamo a ridere e ci strappiamo di dosso questi vestiti ridicoli e. I morti lo fanno? E come lo fanno? (I.51) Sono in camera da letto. Davanti allo specchio. E mi è passata la voglia di ridere. Le macchie. Ne ho dappertutto. (I.114) Qui abbiamo preso quel gelato, più di un anno fa. La prima sera, o la seconda. Non ricordo più. Quando tutto sembrava. Facile. Semplice. Fuori dagli incubi. Fuori dal nero. E non ancora nel blu.

79 It is as though Mirta drifts to sleep and reawakens between paragraphs. The dreamy beauty to this sequence of memories primes the reader to soar with Mirta when she describes a tender experience found at the very end of this chapter: “Mamma mia come si corre alla svelta, da morti. Si vola” (I.55). 80 See pp. 31–36.

Quando eravamo come Mirta e Veronica. Che andavano a prendere un gelato insieme. Ridendo nella notte. Quando. Ferma la macchina, dico. Prendo io i gelati. Che gusti vuoi? (III.205)

Furthermore, the Trilogia’s syntax and general writing style, characterised by short, incomplete sentences and simple prose practically devoid of subordinate clauses, continues to reflect young people’s relationship with modern technology, as Antonelli describes, specifically regarding the style of writing practised by youth in their electronic messaging:

[S]i devono soprattutto alla scrittura veloce e poco meditata alcuni aspetti che riguardano la sintassi: la scarsità di proposizioni subordinate, la giustapposizione delle frasi e il raro uso di elementi connettivi, la frequenza di frasi imperniate su una sequenza di verbi. Sarà, infine, il tono quasi sempre informale a favorire l’impiego di un lessico colloquiale, che non disdegna il turpiloquio o ricorre spesso a parole e modi regionali o dialettali. (ISC 149)

Self-talk, like conceptual ellipses, is a frequent technique employed by Palazzolo for her protagonist. Early in the first novel, Mirta sees something that horrifies her but she wills herself to stay calm, encouraging herself with a single “Coraggio” (I.19). On this same page, there is an interesting juxtaposition between Mirta’s self-talk (in unformatted Roman characters and, thus, indistinguishable from the rest of the text, apart from Mirta’s addressing herself with the second- person singular) and the dialogue in which Mirta’s other self, or superego, engages Mirta (in italics in the book):

[…] è come se stessi urlando. Come in una poesia che abbiamo studiato l’ultimo anno di liceo. Concentrati sulla poesia. Sei nella poesia. La poesia dice che urlo in una calma strana. Ecco. […] Però mi sento benissimo. In realtà, starei benissimo se non fosse per il buco. Concentrati sulla poesia. Non pensare ad altro. Fai finta di scrivere una poesia. Vedi e descrivi. Che cosa vedi? Un buco. Anzi, […] [è] un fosso. Davanti a me, c’è un fosso. Concentrati. Non perdere il ritmo. La poesia. Stai scrivendo una poesia. Allora, c’è un fosso. Coraggio. E io sono uscita da questo fosso. Continua. (I.19)

Her superego urges her to remember and recount. She does and then gets distracted when she sees the pit in front of her and is unable to concentrate:

C’è questo fosso. Non pensare al fosso. Ma c’è. Questo fosso davanti a me. Concentrati. Dimmi. Perché eravate in macchina. Non guardarti intorno. Continua a raccontare. […] Continua a parlare. Racconta, Mirta, non ti fermare. (I.21)

While the whole narration occurs inside the head of the protagonist, italics are used in the novel, as shown above, to indicate the intervention of an interlocutor that is and is not Mirta, one who

56 encourages the girl yet exists within her very head. These two sides of the same person engage in dialogue using tu as well as noi; I believe the use of the latter pronoun indicates a subconscious, self-preserving technique to feel comforted and less alone. In Mirta’s self-talk, she vacillates between commands with tu and the inclusive first-person plural: “Concentrati meglio. […] Va bene, torniamo alla poesia” (I.20).

Mirta also attempts to use humour and sarcasm to keep herself at ease, but her self-deprecating wit is transparent: “Ciao, sono Mirta, sono uscita poco fa dalla tomba. Non si preoccupi, è tutto okay […]” (I.40). Other times, like on I.41, the dialogue is between Mirta and her superego. The first time that we know with certainty that it is Mirta narrating occurs when her superego addresses her by name while using the first-person plural to allude to a shared future circumstance: “Non so, parleremo dopo di questo. Vedremo. Che importa, adesso, Mirta” (I.41).

Later, Palazzolo introduces, via Mirta, philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein’s narrative influence on the protagonist: early in the first book, the reader learns that the diaristic, stream-of- consciousness style employed by Mirta to recount her tale is just the one that her idol had employed. Wittgenstein’s dialogic system is carefully described on I.48:

Nei diari composti nel corso del primo conflitto mondiale, mentre combatteva da volontario sul fronte orientale, il filosofo austriaco Ludwig Wittgenstein annota che il suo modo di pensare è di tipo dialogico. Si svolge cioè come un colloquio tra sé e un altro. Immagino sempre di parlare con un amico, scrive. La prof di filosofia ci ha spiegato l’anno scorso che la forma dialogica è uno dei modi più efficaci di organizzare il proprio pensiero. Risale a Platone e ai suoi dialoghi socratici. […] Ho letto con passione i diari segreti di Wittgenstein. È su questo argomento che ho svolto la tesina per la maturità.

Mirta links this metaliterary explanation to her present experience, directly justifying the dialogic convention used to present her story: “[N]on immaginavo che un giorno il metodo dialogico mi sarebbe servito a tastarmi il polso per sapere se devo considerarmi definitivamente morta. Una possibilità che mi era sfuggita. La valenza pratica del metodo dialogico nella diagnosi di morte” (I.48). This was also, I believe, a clever technique employed by the author to facilitate the unusual introduction of an erudite protégé, to whom Mirta ascribes the nickname “Witt,” as Mirta’s ghostly companion in the first novel.81

81 In the final pages of Non mi uccidere, it is suggested that Witt was merely a hallucination of Mirta’s, a result of her severe lack of sleep. Sara is the one to point Mirta toward this possibility, while Mirta, curiously, muses on the possible fictitious nature of her own kind:

For the principal part of Non mi uccidere, Mirta is on the run, simply seeking to survive and discover her limits. In these moments of stress, anxiety, and fear, namely at the beginning, Mirta operates by instinct and reflex; this is reflected in the narration’s syntax. Sentences are often interrupted before their thought is complete, and the author eschews ellipses or em-dashes to indicate the interruption:

È come se gli fosse crollato il viso, ma lui c’è. La mamma invece. No, Mirta. Devo dirlo alla mamma. No! Alla mamma che ho sbagliato. Che non avevo capito quanto. Vattene, stronza, togliti da lì. […] Cosa credi di essere? […] Una schifosa cosa morta che sbava dentro i vetri e non vede l’ora di. (I.89) Era una specie di incubo. Parlavo e parlavo ma loro. Non ti credevano, dice Witt.82 Per niente, dico. Non ci credevano. […] A cosa stavo passando. Pensavano che si trattasse solo. Di fantasia, dice Witt. (I.241)

Clauses frequently are truncated at their end but also midway through a thought and are continued after a period for effect. Consider the following: “Mi addosso all’angolo del soggiorno, scalciando e mugolando. Bagnata fradicia. Il sapore del sangue in gola. […] Il flash abbacinante contro cui invano sto lottando, per non ammettere che. Sono felice, felice, felice” (I.191). The final clause could and, arguably, should have been connected to the previous one, yet Palazzolo opts for a period to separate the two for emphatic purposes. The following excerpt has a similar presentation: “Lui scuote la testa. La fronte attraversata da ombre lontane” (I.241). The two sentences could easily be merged with a comma in the place of the period after testa; nonetheless, Palazzolo employs this punctuation technique with her heroine. This happens across

Certo, dovevi compensarla, la mancanza di sonno. Deve dormire, quando dorme, mi chiedevo. Alla fine avevo quasi le allucinazioni per la mancanza di sonno. Io credo di averle avute, dico. Ma non so se erano proprio allucinazioni. La villa. E il fantasma di Witt. I fantasmi non esistono, dice categorica Sara. Ancora credi ai fantasmi? […] sto ridendo da paura. Ancora credi ai fantasmi? Detto da una zombie cannibale […] a un’altra morta […]. Certo che credo ai fantasmi, dico infine. Come alcuni credono agli angeli. E altri ai benandanti. O ai sopramorti. (I.418–419) 82 Note that Witt’s dialogue is in unformatted Roman lettering like Mirta’s.

58 various clauses spanning an entire paragraph. This is, I would argue, the default style in the novel; therefore, only a few examples will be extracted in order to demonstrate the phenomenon. The following excerpt has been selected to demonstrate Palazzolo’s stylistic and punctuation choices and how they affect the reading. These two thirds of a page contain 16 thoughts, or potential complete sentences, all of which are separated into shorter phrases; 30 periods; and only nine commas.

Sono scesa a valle in serata. Al limitare di un borgo ho trovato una bottega ancora aperta. Ho comprato due cartoni di latte. Una mozzarella. Del prosciutto. Poche porte più giù, ho comprato i giornali. Muovendomi in una nuvola confusa. Resistendo agli attacchi micidiali del loro odore. Al lezzo che pervade questi borghi. Le botteghe. Le case rinserrate nella notte. Sono passata a volo dal cimitero. Nessun cambiamento. La tomba intatta. Gli angeli di pietra di guardia al loro posto. La mia tomba inondata di fiori. Anche un paio di pupazzetti lasciati da Veronica e Miranda, con un bigliettino alla nostra amatissima, indimenticata Mirta. Non passerò un’altra notte in mezzo alle tombe. E Witt ha promesso che farà lui buona guardia, al mio posto. Sono volata via, sotto i primi goccioloni di pioggia che già battevano sulle lapidi di marmo, sui fiori, sulla ghiaia dei viali. Volo nella pioggia, tra gli uccelli che lanciano i loro stridi. I versi delle civette. L’agitarsi delle fronde. Volo verso nord. Verso i paesi abbarbicati all’Appennino. I chiusi borghi di un’altra montagna. E vorrei non tornare mai più. Perdermi nella notte. Trovare qualcuno che incroci la mia strada. Tornare con qualcuno, mano nella mano. (I.243) 5.1 Repetition

“Eravamo in macchina” is repeated often by Mirta in the first 40 pages of the book. Like a chorus, it brings Mirta back to focus, to familiarity.83 It is natural, unconscious, and recurring, like breathing in and out, following the breath, keeping in the present, calming the self with a familiar voice or mantra. If she can allow her mind to return to the macchina in times of strife or confusion, she allows herself to enjoy a safe space, contrary to where she finds herself preceding the incantation.

On I.23, “Eravamo in macchina” is preceded by an exhortation from Mirta’s mind, which is trying to assemble the events that led Mirta to where she is: “Dimmi che cos’è successo ieri sera. Quando eravate in macchina. Vedi e descrivi. Racconta, Mirta” (I.22). She starts from the beginning to get back on track, to reset herself, as it were, to get her bearings and find footing in reality, though the reality that she evokes is in the past. Her use of the imperfect indicates that she is reliving an action that is continuous, with no ending and, seemingly, no beginning, as it

83 This is much like Percival Wemys Madison’s habit in The Lord of the Flies (1954) by William Golding: he repeats his name and home address in order to not forget his origins and civilisation.

59 loops in her mind and is the evocative background to the events that followed. Following the exhortation, she is persuaded and follows her mind’s advice. Paragraph breaks demonstrate a change in mental state, or a change of subject: “Va bene. Vado avanti. Non voglio aprire gli occhi. Non voglio sapere veramente dov’è Robin, per il momento, e perché non risponde. Voglio andare avanti a parlare. Domande e risposte. Ricominciamo. Da Robin. No, dalla macchina” (I.25). Below are additional examples of Mirta’s self-actualising and stabilising mantra:

Eravamo in macchina. Faceva un freddo cane, ma ero vestita leggerissima. Mi ero messa in tiro. Come sempre, quando esco con Robin. Eravamo in macchina e Robin era nervoso. (I.28) Ieri sera, quando eravamo in macchina. (I.33) Eravamo in macchina, nei pressi della discarica. Ieri sera, quando eravamo in macchina, lui era agitato. (I.34) Eravamo in macchina. Eravamo in macchina. (I.35)

Indeed, “Eravamo in macchina” appears to serve Mirta as a self-affirming prayer, which, while the verb in the incantation is conjugated in the imperfect indicative, allows her to feel calm and comforted in the present. Meanwhile, the repetition of the future indicative Diranno erupts from Mirta and interrupts, followed by what “they”—her family, law enforcement, friends—will say in the imagined event that they discover her to be undead: “E rinforzeranno la lapide con una lastra d’acciaio e una colata di cemento armato. Diranno: s’era confusa. Diranno: come tanti. Diranno: come tutti. […] Diranno: vieni giù piccola, coraggio, che ti riportiamo a casa” (I.43). Similarly, on I.108, “Se stanotte non muoio” begins three paragraphs, each of which is separated by one line space;84 this repetition betrays Mirta’s nascent despair and meek attempt to problem- solve. Like in other moments in which a mantra brings Mirta back to herself, fuelling courage to face and overcome a present difficulty, Mirta allows herself to rationally strategise and collect herself between each pondering of her immediate future (notice the use of the present rather than the future indicative).85 The possibility of a future, although daunting in some circumstances, is what gives her hope and determination to not die:

84 See section 2 in Chapter 3 (pp. 92–97) for a deeper study on the formatting in this trilogy. 85 Furthermore, in the excerpt, the reader will note that, for longer-term plans that do not involve just one action on Mirta’s part (like seeing her professor) but, rather, an action leading to an extended circumstance (like securing food and shelter), Mirta uses the future indicative.

Se stanotte non muoio per sempre, domani vado dal professor Barzini e gli dico che sono uscita dalla tomba per non saltare l’esame di filologia romanza. […] Se stanotte non muoio, prendo i soldi e vado per il mondo a cercare la tomba di Wittgenstein. […] Se stanotte non muoio, dovrò cercar da mangiare e un posto caldo. O forse, se troverò da mangiare e un posto caldo, non morirò stanotte. (I.108)

Later, the repetition of some form of straccio, used in a derogatory manner, is likewise meaningful throughout pages I.130–131. It highlights just how this individual, who is characterised as being as meaningless and devoid of value as a shred of fabric, repulses Mirta,86 who can focus on little else besides the man’s straccio nature: “Appena si è seduto ho pensato a Robin. A quello che direbbe Robin, se potesse vedermi. Al tavolo con uno straccio. Così li chiama Robin. Gli straccissimi di questo locale mi fanno schifo. Hanno un look riconoscibile,” which she then describes in detail. She concludes with, “Questi sono gli stracci da locale, secondo Robin. E uno di loro s’è seduto al mio tavolo e mi parla” (I.131)—one Mario Cerruti, whose life Mirta later terminates. In the next paragraph, after having interacted with this straccio, Mirta characterises him in her mind quite comically as “lo straccio più straccio che abbia mai conosciuto” (I.131).87 Still, she is relieved by his company: “Questo straccio fonato non sa il sollievo che mi sta procurando. Seduta in discoteca a bere Cuba libre e parlare con uno straccio qualsiasi. […] Non sa che sollievo sentire questa musica da stracci in un posto da stracci […]” (I.131). Before letting this word and amusing imagery fade away without a final salute, Palazzolo invokes the first moments with Mario several pages later with this word, carrying his aura and the ambiance of the bar to Mario’s car, where Mirta and this man end up:

Ma questo non è solo un mondo selvaggio. Non è solo una giungla. È un mondo sguaiato. Volgare. Becero. Un mondo straccio fatto per gli stracci. Un mondo in saldo. (I.146) Lui si è acceso una sigaretta. Ha cambiato stazione alla radio. Una musica melensa, sconnessa, una colonna sonora da stracci per una serata straccia. (I.147)

Palazzolo, evidently, is not opposed to having her heroine be linguistically uninspired as Mirta summons the presence of her beloved’s linguistic tics to accompany her, but what may appear to lack creativity on the surface serves two important underlying creative purposes for the

86 It is hard to say whether Mirta’s repulsion stems from her beloved’s distaste for this brand of person or originates in Mirta proper. I believe the former, considering that each description of this straccio is prefaced or followed by a mention of how Robin preferred that descriptive term. The repetitive use of Robin’s term also serves to mitigate Mirta’s loneliness, bringing Robin close to her in these unfamiliar and unpleasant environments. 87 See footnote 72 on p. 50 for an exploration of this thought that is syntactically analogous to a supposedly flirtatious one expressed by Mario about Mirta.

61 narration: evoking the spirits of those who are absent from the narrative and reproducing environments and experiences previously inhabited by Mirta.88 Finally, of course, they also serve to reflect the first-person narrator’s state of being and purpose.

As Mirta retells her story, the default verb used for speech tags is dire (or chiedere, when a question is posed), and, while perhaps unoriginal and repetitive, this practice reflects orality in addition to stream of consciousness. Both tags—dire and chiedere—are immediate and do not necessitate mental reflection on the words used. Since the plot unfolds in the immediate present, as indicated by the verb tense of Mirta’s first-person narrations, the reader is further invited into the unfurling narrative by the uncomplicated choice of words, as in the example below:

Non è possibile. Non è possibile essere qua e ora. Qua e ora, e in questo stato. E riuscire ancora a pensare. A esserci. A dirsi. A dire, io. A dire, Witt. A dire, il gatto. A dire, come possiamo esser qui. A dire, dove siamo. In un lago di tenebra, dice Witt sottovoce. (I.242)

Coletti goes so far as to call “una lingua senza stile” (340) this type of insistently objective, unremarkable writing, such as that employed by journalists for describing people. He explains that, as the style of the romanzo was standardised from the 1800s,89 it began to resemble more and more the stylistic traits of what would become journalistic writing in the latter half of the 1900s: “L’italiano di molta narrativa condivide in effetti con la lingua dei giornali e della burocrazia procedure sintattiche e marche lessicali tipiche” (Coletti 338).90 Furthermore, the journalistic manner of writing indicates a “lingua media al punto giusto, ma pericolosamente piatta, ripetitiva, prevedibile” (339). Andrea De Carlo, in his Tecniche di seduzione (1991), employs “ha chiesto,” “ha gridato,” and “ha detto” to introduce direct discourse, using the last one multiple times, thus reducing “fortemente lo spettro ammissibile dei verba dicendi,

88 The use of straccio exemplifies this effect, as it invokes Robin’s presence when he is still only a memory in the narration. Another evocative instance, and one that haunts Mirta throughout Non mi uccidere, is the repetition of striscia to summon Mirta’s ghastly encounter with a dying woman whom she had injured. See pp. 62–64. 89 Of course, without Alessandro Manzoni’s Promessi sposi (1840), the starting point for a standardised style might have come to Italy only much later; see Coletti 308. 90 At the same time, Coletti notes, journalists exhibit a tendency to exaggerate in their search for synonyms, going beyond what is necessary to avoid excessive repetition. He cites and criticises De Carlo, who, “[n]ello stesso capitolo di Tecniche di seduzione in cui ironizza sugli stilemi giornalistici che impongono di usare tutta «la gamma di sinonimi ed equivalenti del verbo», se l’attrice «raccontava» il sociologo doveva «soggiungere» e il poeta «sbottare» e la cantante «confidare», il politico «obiettare» o «ribattere» o «affermare» o «riferire» o «rivelare» o «dichiarare» o «sostenere»” (Coletti 339).

62 esasperando così, e perciò in un certo senso mirando dal basso, la medietà stilistica imperante nei media” (Coletti 339–340)—yet indubitably maintaining the attention of the reader rather than distracting from it.

This brings to mind Matt’s caution to readers and to critics of Moccia’s manner of writing, which features abundant repetition. Matt highlights the “alta frequenza di espressioni banali, utilizzate in modo irriflesso, per pigra accettazione della lingua di plastica dominante nei mezzi di comunicazione di massa” (256). He illustrates this point by listing the 21 times that Moccia employs “come un(a) pazzo(-a)” or “come pazzi(-e)” in one of his novels. Subsequently, and immediately after this list, Matt warns the reader against interpreting this type of phenomenon “come un tentativo di adesione al linguaggio giovanile, effettivamente molto incline alla ripetizione continua di un numero limitato di parole e locuzioni”; indeed, these locutions, he underlines, are not part of the dialogues of the adolescent characters, but, rather, they are part of the narration (Matt 256). In Palazzolo, I maintain that the repetition of words and phrases, however banal, is appropriate, is not forced, and reflects the age of the protagonist, even in narration, since the entire series constitutes a first-person narration.

Of course, not all instances of repetition betray the fluid traits of young people’s spoken language. In most cases, as explained earlier, repetition serves to emphasise a trait (straccio) or to recall an event as a means to refocus and refresh the protagonist’s mental state (Eravamo in macchina) in Palazzolo’s series. After Mirta commits a horrific mass murder at a house party, she notices that, while the scents of the living had been extinguished by her carnage, the scent of a single human remains, and it is that of a woman barely holding on to life: “la donna che striscia.” This terrifying image of the sole survivor is rendered all the more disturbing not just by the repetition of the word striscia (12 times across a variety of morphological verbal forms in under two pages), but by the very imagery associated with the one creature immediately conjured by the word’s sound, spelling, and animalistic connotation: a serpent. Additionally, the scene that solidifies this donna che striscia as a recurring theme in the book invokes the sense of powerlessness and weakness of a human who cannot walk or run but can merely drag her weight forward—which is, itself, a sign of unnerving will and determination, especially in the following scene (in which I have italicised all morphological variants of strisciare):

Una donna dai capelli mechati sta strisciando pancia a terra. Ha sangue dappertutto. Ma striscia. Sui corpi degli altri. […] È l’unica che ancora si muove. […] Striscia verso una porta finestra dai

vetri frantumati. […] E questa donna che striscia. Come sono strisciata io […]. La donna continua a strisciare. […] Striscia sui vetri. […] Solo strisciare in avanti. […] Dove forse striscerà verso una delle automobili parcheggiate. […] Abbasso il fucile e la lascio libera. Di strisciare verso la vita. […] Guardo per l’ultima volta la donna che striscia […]. Ne avverto un vaghissimo sentore di vita ancora ribelle. Fievole. Ma che la costringe a strisciare. (I.246–247)

The image haunts Mirta continually, re-surfacing in trying moments with the insistent and disturbing imagery of a snake slithering inexorably toward its helpless victim as a prelude to the latter’s death; in this case, while the slithering woman heads toward safety rather than destruction, the descriptive serpentine movements of the bloodied half-dead human body act as the terrifying culmination of this grotesque scene. La donna che striscia even warrants Palazzolo’s italics to demarcate it as a denomination of importance: “E qualcosa si muove. Giù. Tra i cespugli. A pochi metri da me. Qualcosa che striscia, la donna che striscia? Sta strisciando. Come una serpe. Neppure una serpe. Neppure una donna. Qualcosa” (I.307). Then, just under 200 pages after the introduction of la donna che striscia, the image of the slithering woman returns when Mirta needs to slip away unnoticed and she remarks on the slithering of sly creatures around her:

Tieniti giù! E striscia! Hai capito Mirta, devi strisciare! […] [Sara yells, to which Mirta responds with actions:] E striscio. Dormendo. Impiastricciandomi di fango e foglie. Strisciando. Tutto il tempo. Tutto il mondo, sta strisciando. La cosa che striscia, accanto a me, spingendomi avanti, ripetendomi che devo strisciare, e strisciare e strisciare. (I.422)

She then recalls la donna che striscia in a self-aware fashion, even if it is only Palazzolo who intentionally writes in and recalls this unsettling image:

La donna che striscia, sempre all’angolo del mio occhio, puntando i piedi insanguinati sui cocci di vetro per tirarsi avanti. I benandanti, che strisciano dovunque nel mondo, nel tempo, spinti dalla ferocia e dall’invidia, per fotterci tutti. Mirta, che striscia verso la baita, con il corpo irrigidito, coperto di macchie, e gli occhi annerati dalla morte, mordendo la terra, e strisciando. La ragazza, che striscia sulla schiena per sottrarsi ai colpi del mostro, il viso insanguinato e la mano levata, e quel sorriso. I morti, che strisciano fuori dalle tombe. Per amore. Per vendetta. E sempre, per rabbia. Per divorare il mondo. Striscia. Striscia. Striscia. Come una ninna nanna nera in cui bisogna tirarsi avanti, puntare i piedi e strisciare, anche nel sonno, anche in sogno, sempre avanti. (I.422)

The wonderful alliteration and unnerving cacophony evoked by this triad—striscia, striscia, striscia; una ninna nanna nera; nel sonno, anche in sogno, sempre avanti—magnificently draws the reader in to feeling the relentlessness of these situations, the chilling desperation of the original donna che striscia, of her moving forward, but for what, if not certain death? Still, she

64 slithers forward, determined yet without knowing what lies ahead and knowing only that she has to move forward; Mirta follows her lead, as she had before their paths crossed: “Striscia, Mirta. Striscia tra le tombe” (I.56).

5.2 Direct Discourse

The style of discourse in the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna is difficult to decipher at first, given the lack of punctuation marks to indicate speech or dialogue, and it was important to find out whether the discourse style was intentional on the part of the author or a result of the editor’s work. After my messages to the publisher of the Trilogia, Piemme, went unanswered after several months, I contacted the widower of Palazzolo, journalist and author Anselmo Terminelli, to make some inquiries regarding the punctuation style and formatting choices in his late wife’s works. Were they, in fact, the result of the editor’s hand or were these stylistic choices enacted with distinct intention to evoke a certain mood or feeling? Terminelli confirmed that it was, indeed, the latter: Palazzolo had everything to do with the style, including the lack of punctuation to introduce direct discourse. She leaned on the works of some of her literary idols, one of which was American novelist Cormac McCarthy:

Lo stile usato da Chiara non è casuale. E’ invece frutto di uno studio molto approfondito, per esempio, della teoria del linguaggio di Wittgenstein – diventato Witt in “Non mi uccidere”, tra l’altro tutto quello che dice sono frasi delle sue opere riportate fedelmente da Chiara - per rappresentare anche nello stile (frase spezzata) il disorientamento della protagonista. Come per l’abolizione della punteggiatura e delle virgolette nei discorsi si è ispirata a Cormac McCarty [sic] e ad altri autori che ha molto amato. Tutto questo Chiara lo ha fatto per creare un linguaggio che riflettesse il più possibile anche nello stile i contenuti della trama, fortemente caratterizzata, specialmente nella prima parte, da una dissoluzione dei rapporti tanto da farci pensare a un vero e proprio nichilismo esistenziale. (Terminelli, “Re: Chiara”)

As the present reader might suspect, exploring 19th-century German philosophy and the writings of Wittgenstein are beyond the scope of this thesis,91 but the intentionality of our author is important to note. Nothing was left up to chance, and the discursive style selected by Palazzolo for the sections narrated by Mirta-Luna obey a definitive convention in order to underline her “vero e proprio nichilismo esistenziale,” as Terminelli explains with succinctness.

91 He continues, explaining that Palazzolo had intended, before her death, to explain the reasoning behind her methods: “Del resto tutta la trilogia è impregnata, quasi contaminata - diceva Chiara - dalla filosofia tedesca dell’Ottocento e Novecento. Chiara aveva intenzione di scrivere una lunga nota su questa particolare caratteristica della Trilogia” (Terminelli, “Re: Chiara”).

As explained elsewhere in this chapter and as will be outlined in the next few pages, Palazzolo has her protagonist act as the first-person limited omniscient, or homodiegetic, narrator, though Mirta does not narrate the events in the prologues and interludes. She cannot be truly omniscient because she is unaware of the happenings outside of her immediate vicinity; however, Palazzolo craftily has Mirta visit edicole in the aftermath of killing sprees, for instance, so that the newbie zombie can purchase newspapers that objectively tell of the tragedies she has committed. In so doing, Mirta also learns about related events in the Subasio region. There is mystery to the novel, of course: Who is la donna che striscia? Who is the woman lurking around Mirta toward the end of book one? What are the berline nere and what do they want? How is Mirta’s family moving on without her? Most of the narration unfolds and moves forward exclusively around Mirta, in that it is diaristic and narrated by the protagonist: it is being lived and not recounted, and what Mirta delivers is all that is being experienced by her. Still, not even the third-person narration that occurs in the prologues and interludes can be said to be omniscient, as those characters are cut off from Mirta and have no contact with her.

Curiously, in these aforementioned sections, not only is Mirta manifestly absent but the narrative style is much more conventional: a variety of punctuation marks is employed and speech is signalled by quotations marks, with each reply placed neatly in a new paragraph:

«I ragazzi devono essere sepolti insieme» aveva detto [Muriel] al padre di Mirta. «È una promessa che avevo fatto a tutti e due. In caso di disgrazia. E intendo farla rispettare.» «In caso di disgrazia!» era esploso il padre di Mirta. «Di quale disgrazia parla? Suo figlio ha ammazzato mia figlia! È stato un omicidio, un omicidio premeditato!»92 […] «L’ho promesso anche a Mirta» aveva ripetuto lei. (I.11)

When thoughts are expressed in these sections, they are set apart with periods, commas, and colons, whereas spoken words are signalled with quotation marks: “Mosse le dita, avvertendo delle fitte. Alla prossima, pensò, farò di meglio. Sbuffò, accese una sigaretta e crollò a sedere in poltrona. «Marcolino è su con Ewusia?» chiese” (II.1).

Additionally, the sentences in the preludes and interludes are noticeably longer, more complex, embellished, and replete with subordinate clauses:

92 In the book, this utterance by Mirta’s father is placed on a new line and indented, as though uttered by Muriel, by mistake. I have replicated the error here.

Un vento gelido spazzava i viali, torcendo le chiome leggere dei platani. Sotto il cielo gravido di nubi di pioggia, una ventina di persone si assiepavano intorno alle bare. Le lapidi erano già state incise. Le fosse scavate al mattino. Il sacerdote fece un segno di croce su ciascuna bara. […] Immobile come una statua, Amalia fissava la bara di sua figlia. (I.9)

Palazzolo wished to create a stylistic boundary between these interludes and the actual narration of her story: to underline the order that still reigns in the world of Mirta’s living family, the narration in these sections follows conventional forms, with each speaker’s words neatly separated by the appropriate punctuation marks and marked with dialogue tags to guide the reader and underline the identity, set in stone in the world of mortals, of the speaker; to emphasise the chaotic madness-inducing dis-order of Mirta-Luna’s desolate immortal existence, all symbols, literal and metaphorical, are violently stripped away, leaving the reader to fend for herself. Just as Mirta has no signposts to guide her in this new life, the reader must similarly figure out what is going on before her on the book’s pages. To reflect the chaos and amoral nature of the “wild world”93 inhabited by anthropophagous protagonists, the minimalist punctuation employed by Palazzolo reflects the “liminal spaces” of questionable humanity occupied by humans feasting on other humans, a liminality present in McCarthy’s The Road, where anthropophagy also makes an appearance:

Stylistically, The Road echoes this liminality. The text turns away from humans in its use of minimalist dialogues and lack of speech and thought tags. Lydia Cooper argues that “the visual starkness of the text reflects an equal absence of subjectivity. The lack of commas, ellipses, and parentheses—all of which often indicate the presence of an evaluative consciousness—mirrors a syntactical refusal to acknowledge evaluative consciousnesses other than that of a distant, removed narrator” (3). (Estes 6–7)

While Cooper (qtd. in Estes 6–7) affirms that missing punctuation is an indicator of absent subjectivity in McCarthy’s third-person narration, the case is inverse in Palazzolo’s first-person narration: Mirta-Luna’s subjective experience is underlined with the absence of punctuation. Their presence would infuse her world with an order and objectivity that it does not, in fact, contain. Erik Hage, in his Literary Companion to the works of Palazzolo’s literary role model, marvels that McCarthy, “a writer known for such excesses — in his language, in his plumbing philosophical explorations, in his violent descriptions — should also come to be defined by such grammatical sparseness” (156). He continues, stating that, like in Palazzolo’s Trilogia, despite the lack of quotation marks or “attribution” to guide the reader through dialogic exchanges,

93 See p. 82 for more on this reference.

“Somehow, […] the reader remains oriented as to who is speaking” (156). Hage says “somehow” this is possible in text stylised in such a fashion, but it is evident that, via the smooth blending of speech with action, of thought with movement—as Ricci indicates, a narrative “fitta di dialoghi” (310)94—the immediacy of Mirta-Luna’s experience is facilitated, allowing the reader to experience the objectivity of Mirta’s experience through the subjective lens of the I-narrator.

Indeed, before receiving confirmation from Terminelli, I hypothesised that Mirta’s narrations were intended to comprise a stream-of-consciousness diaristic tale, devoid of tidiness or order, just as her undead life is utter disorganised chaos, as complemented by the organised, and tidy order of the living, where delineations between speaker and listener, writer and reader, living and dead are never called into question and are taken for granted. Palazzolo wants the reader to grapple with making sense out of Mirta’s existence along with Mirta, hence the lack of punctuation to guide the reading of the text.

Further dramatising the aforementioned effects is the narrative unfolding of the Trilogia via direct discourse. In the Treccani/Enciclopedia dell’italiano definition of the discorso diretto, Magda Mandelli describes direct discourse as “una delle forme tradizionalmente riconosciute del discorso riportato, cioè uno dei modi che offre la lingua per riprodurre, in forma orale o scritta, enunciati appartenenti a un atto di enunciazione diverso da quello che dà luogo alla riproduzione” (Mandelli). To contrast it with indirect discourse, which includes the rephrasing of the original utterance, “il discorso diretto può accogliere tutte le parole della produzione originaria, comprese le interiezioni e i segnali discorsivi tipici del parlato […]” (Mandelli). Palazzolo is consistent in her writing style and in the lingo of youth that she has her characters use in the text, which she reports via direct discourse.

While dialogue in Italian prose is introduced first by the colon and followed by quotation marks or a dash, in contemporary publications like Palazzolo’s, and particularly “in tipologie testuali più ‘libere’ (scrittura giornalistica, prosa letteraria, ecc.), non è raro che manchi l’uno o l’altro indicatore, o che questi siano sostituiti da altri demarcatori di varia natura”—which may consist, simply, of the humble comma (Mandelli). Palazzolo employs almost exclusively this latter brand of extremely minimalist punctuation, so that few, if any, delineators exist between speaker and

94 See p. 52.

68 spoken. As a result, it can be difficult to determine when an utterance is occurring, especially when Mirta is talking to herself; however, Stefanelli underlines that this is not without precedent and is a current practice in Italian novels and readers must not struggle to navigate the discourse. Stefanelli includes an excerpt from Giuseppe Culicchia’s 2009 Brucia la città, which is remarkably similar in style (both in syntax and discourse) to Palazzolo’s syntactical and discursive styles:

Niente. Zero. Sparita, Allegra. Sei di nuovo sparita. Non sai fare altro, quando litighiamo. L’ultima volta domenica sotto casa tua. […]. Al ritorno dall’after al Doctor Sax. Eri in fissa con la solita storia. Che ormai hai ventisette anni e ti senti vecchia. Che nei locali è pieno di tredicenni. E che quando avevi la loro età eri certa che a quest’ora saresti stata qualcosa, qualcuno. Non una fuoricorso al Dams ancora alle prese con qualche problema di acne ma già col primo capello bianco. Ho ventisette anni e non so che voglio, mi hai detto sull’orlo delle lacrime. Tu almeno fai il dj al Tortuga e tutti ti conoscono e sei su YouTube e una volta ti ha intervistato perfino “GQ” […]. Io invece non sono nessuno, capisci? Nessuno. (Culicchia95 qtd. in Stefanelli 119)

“È, questo, l’esempio di una consapevole contaminazione tra discorso indiretto e diretto citato, piano narrativo e piano dialogico,” Stefanelli (119) explains,96 where both “levels” are infused with the fluidity of subjective oral discourse, influenced also by the intentional use of punctuation and “frasi spezzate,” as Terminelli describes in his wife’s work.97

Below is an excerpt of dialogue between Mirta—who begins by talking about her beloved ghost of a literary companion, Wittgenstein—and a stranger to exemplify Palazzolo’s variety of direct discourse:

È uno studente austriaco, dico. Ed è nobile, sì. Ah, dice lui, uno straniero. Vengono qui e si pigliano le nostre ragazze. Le più fighe. Questi cazzoni. […] E tu, dice. Tu come ti chiami? Guardo la discarica. Il cielo pieno di stelle. La piccola falce di luna che inargenta lo squallore di questo posto. […] E penso, Mirta. Il mio nome perduto. Il nome che nessuno potrà mai più pronunciare. […] Luna, dico. Mi chiamo Luna.

95 Giuseppe Culicchia, Brucia la città (Turin: Einaudi, 2009) 11. 96 Stefanelli’s detailed description of Culicchia’s intentional style is worth reproducing here, as it provides a useful synthesis of contemporary trends of reproducing discourse in fictional texts: “[V]engono eliminate le virgolette all’avvio e in chiusura del discorso diretto, però compare di frequente il punto per dividere non soltanto segmenti nominali, ma anche frasi sintatticamente legate tra loro da un rapporto di coordinazione che in questo modo diventano giustapposte, anzi affastellate. Nello stesso tempo, l’insistenza della congiunzione e, anche dopo il punto, sembra alludere a una serie di riprese intonative che compensano le pause rendendo omogeneo il flusso discorsivo” (119). I encourage the reader to keep this synthesis in mind as we explore syntactic and discursive styles in the A cena col vampiro series as well. 97 See p. 64.

Certo che pure tu, con questi nomi, dice lui. C’avete proprio nomi strani. Anche al ragazzino di un amico mio, l’hanno chiamato Bruce. Come Bruce Willis. Che nome è? E tu come ti chiami, gli chiedo. Io? Io non mi chiamo, mi chiamano gli altri! E sbotta a ridere di nuovo, stridulo. Schifoso vivente di merda! e non me ne frega niente di dire parolacce. Perché adesso mi sto incazzando. Di brutto. […] Ehi, ci sei rimasta male, dice lui. E dai, Lunetta, scherzavo. Comunque, mi chiamo Mario. Mi chiamo normale. (I.146–147)

From “schifoso” to “brutto” in the above excerpt, Mirta is expressing her thoughts, but it is striking to see these immediately after the speech tag and description, “E sbotta a ridere di nuovo, stridulo,” since the change from the third-person singular to the first-person singular on the same line should have indicated a return to Mario’s speech and not his interlocutor’s thoughts (who is also the first-person narrator, in this case). It is easy to see Palazzolo’s dialogic trends just in these few paragraphs; the comma truly is employed as a multifunctional tool in Palazzolo’s work. As Mandelli explains, the comma often is adopted “come unico demarcatore grafico del discorso diretto” in contemporary works. Furthermore, communicating the immediacy of the protagonist’s thoughts by placing them immediately after a previous speaker’s utterance, as in the “Schifoso […] brutto” example, is valued over taking advantage of the use of space on the page for the sake of narrative clarity.

Finally, though Mandelli specifies that it is rare in contemporary Italian literature to omit both punctuation and graphic devices to signal dialogue, in the cases in which these are omitted, “si risale alla citazione grazie alla presenza di indicazioni deittiche o attraverso segnali linguistici o contestuali”; she provides illuminating common examples in which “il discorso diretto – oltre a essere preannunciato dalla cornice dico – è segnalato dalla deissi personale e spazio-temporale, dalle interiezioni ok e dai, e più in generale dall’andamento sintattico e ritmico mimetico del parlato”98—all of which are present in the Trilogia.

The opening scene of Palazzolo’s Non mi uccidere is at a burial site where Mirta and Robin are being buried in their caskets. The short sentences in this prologue, all of them complete, appear to set the dark, gloomy, cold scene perfectly: there is nothing more to say in such morbid

98 Here is a contemporary example, provided by Mandelli: “Allora dico ok, andiamo in Vaticano, vedrai che bello e che immensa quella basilica, una cosa stupenda eppoi saliremo in alto e ci cucchiamo tutta Roma d’un colpo, dai, però facciamo in fretta, abbiamo poche ore prima dell’ultimo treno valido per la caserma di Orvieto (Tondelli, Pao Pao, cit., p. 209).”

70 situations. Death is just a fact in these circumstances, despite how tragic the premature deaths of these individuals were: “Non era più tempo di prediche. E nell’omelia della sera precedente, ai funerali, aveva già detto tutto quel ch’era da dire” (I.7). Nonetheless, by Italian standards, the sentences are rather short (the longest full sentence in the very first paragraph contains 17 words, including prepositions and articles; the shortest, five). Incomplete sentences start to appear only in flashbacks on the second page (I.8) and in the description of the way the men at the cemetery worked. The short, incomplete sentences serve to underline the drama, to accentuate it by increasing pauses: “Un lavoro è un lavoro, e col tempo si fa l’abitudine alle bare, alle lacrime, alla commozione. Alla disperazione. Si fa l’abitudine a tutto. Anche ai morti” (I.8); also, “E [Amalia, Mirta’s mother] quasi non parlava, se non per pronunciare i pochi monosillabi di circostanza: sì, no, grazie” (I.7). These types of sentences are a sign of simplified, objective descriptions; life is too short for adjectives and the death of others is too weakening on the ones who survive them: “Non ricordava. Fissava la bara. Non c’era altro da fare. Solo fissare la bara” (I.9). Repetition also makes manifest the constants of thought and observation and reinforces the fixation.

Upon waking from her subterranean slumber, Mirta is confused, disoriented, and panicked. The length of sentences in this series is typically quite short, but these are especially abrupt, with single words devoid of articles standing alone before a period:

Buio. Sonno. Cosa. Rumori. Sonno. Dormire. Ancora un poco. Fastidio. Voglio dormire. Rumori. I vicini, forse. Voglio dormire. Ancora rumori. Quali vicini. Non voglio svegliarmi. È buio. Ancora buio. Che ore sono. Presto. Tardi. Sonno. Buio. Robin. Amore. Sei tu. Sonno. Voglio dormire. Sonno. Buio. Sonno. (I.17)

There is a very evident change of format on the page, that is, in juxtaposition with the conventionality of the prologue. Twenty-eight complete sentences appear on the page, three of which are repeated in these 28, and most feature just two words (“Sei tu”; “È buio”; “Voglio dormire”). There is no special punctuation used apart from the period—not even for questions— save for two commas. There are no inflections, basically; we are witnessing an anarchic turmoil of thoughts, a storm of nouns pummelling the mind of the protagonist who is unable to make conscious sense of her unfamiliar surroundings and state.

A definite sense of urgency imbues these quick, sharp thoughts, and these repeated contemplations and an attempt on Mirta’s part to secure her current reality continue for a few paragraphs until her panic climaxes and overflows in desperation:

Luce. No. Dove. Cosa c’è qua. Coperte. Pesanti. Devo svegliarmi. Alzarmi. Mamma. Robin sei tu. Devo alzarmi. Sono sveglia. Papà. Cos’è. Uno scherzo. Alzarmi. Luce. Luce. LUCE. DOV’È LA LUCE. NON CI VEDO. QUESTE COPERTE. PESANTISSIME. SOFFOCO. VIA! FATEMI USCIRE! MAMMA! DOVE SEI! DOVE SIETE TUTTI! ROBIN! PAPÀ! È TUTTO BUIO! ARIA!

ARIAAAAAA! (I.18)

She starts to pull it together somewhat, after her explosion of panic due to her “need” for air.99 As a result, her sentences start to lengthen, to contain verbs, and to become more independently coherent:

Cos’è stato? Un incubo? Ci sono le stelle. Ma dove sono? Quante. Alberi. Come si sta bene. All’aperto. Sono all’aperto. Stelle. Luna. Alberi. Di notte. Non posso essere all’aperto di notte. Ma non è un sogno. Com’è strano, però. Come un sogno. Bello. Stelle. Alberi. (I.18)

Finally, halfway through the narrative of the first novel, Mirta is psyching herself up, so to speak, for a risky and dangerous moment. The buildup to the literal jump has her mind moving a mile a minute between the present and future. The swift, short, incomplete sentences reflect the near mania:

E allora, coraggio, e giù a capofitto dallo scoglio più alto. Pensando, forse annegherò. Morirò. Forse le correnti mi porteranno via. Allora. Mentre adesso lottare contro la corrente è un gioco. Una carezza. Sto rovinando il vestito. Inzuppando d’acqua il giubbotto. E non mi importa. Perché vivrò in eterno. E l’eternità è lunga. E ha bisogno di nuotate controcorrente. Di rischio. Di pericolo. Di pazzia. Altrimenti, che cosa è mai? (I.226) 5.3 Register

When reviewing and reflecting on the deaths, as reported in newspapers, of two people that she killed (Mario Cerruti and Susanna “Susy” Longo), Mirta adopts the style and register of the articles that she reads. She relates the events as though she were the objective observer reporting on the events, not the one who perpetrated them: “Si ipotizza comunque”—the si impersonale being, in essence, objective and impersonal and lending itself best to bureaucratic texts with no specific agent—“che la scomparsa [di Cerruti] risalga a venerdì notte. Può avere incontrato qualcuno allo Strange Days. O dopo, sulla via del ritorno. Un testimone, presente nel locale,

99 She will later discover that she does not, in fact, have a physiological need to take in oxygen.

72 ricorda vagamente una donna bionda con cui sarebbe uscito” (I.248–249). Abruptly, Mirta breaks character, so to speak, and the style and register change suddenly as she adds her personal touch and evidence of her own presence at the scene to the description: “Bionda! Grazie al cielo, bionda. Chissà che cosa vede veramente la gente, alle tre del mattino, sballata, assonnata e bombardata di musica assordante e flash abbaglianti” (I.249). The journalistic, objective register continues with the report on La Susy, who is presented to Mirta by her full, formal name in the news story; furthermore, Mirta’s reading of the reporting’s neutral style unaffected by subjective inflection allows the protagonist to distance herself from the identity of the individual that she knew and loved and the crime that she committed. Indeed, Mirta does not need to read the newspaper article to know what happened, as she herself had brought to term the violent act that ended Susy’s life, but the consumption of straightforward, impersonal information allows her to separate the actions of a murderer from the Mirta(-Luna) holding the newspaper:

Susanna Longo, 27 anni. Scomparsa in circostanze misteriose nella notte tra sabato e domenica. Coincidenza inquietante, la Longo lavorava come baby sitter presso la famiglia Fossati e sabato sera si trovava proprio nella casa perugina di Mirta Fossati, la ragazza morta per droga la cui salma è stata trafugata. La casa è stata trovata in ordine, ma della Longo nessuna traccia. Si ipotizza, anche sulla base della testimonianza di un vicino di casa, che la Longo abbia lasciato l’appartamento poco prima dell’alba, diretta probabilmente alla sua automobile. Ma che non vi sia mai arrivata. La vettura100 è stata ritrovata infatti in un parcheggio sotterraneo poco distante, regolarmente chiusa. […] È comunque al vaglio degli inquirenti la posizione del suo fidanzato, Fabrizio Motta. (I.249–250)

These instances of impersonality—notably, the use of the passive rather than active constructions as well as, of course, the si impersonale—are explained by Maurizio Dardano as forming an essential practice of journalistic writing: “Una serie di procedimenti formali è usata per occultare gli attori dell’azione. Ricordiamo: l’uso dell’impersonale e del passivo […]” (42). Coletti reiterates with an example from Sebastiano Vassalli’s La chimera,101 and he explains that newspapers, while having institutionalised a narrative style unique to their medium, have influenced the style of narration in novels to such an extent as to lend these conventions to novels in a somewhat “destylised” form; a case in point is the way a character or locale is

100 This word is particularly striking, since vettura is unequivocally journalistic and bureaucratic. 101 “Nobile per nascita, raffinato per educazione e per cultura, buon conoscitore del latino e dello spagnolo, cioè delle due lingue internazionali dell’epoca, brillante scrittore in latino e in italiano, esperto di diritto ecclesiastico e civile e dotato, in piú, di un naturale talento di organizzatore e di «manager»: Bescapè aveva tutte le carte in regola per aspirare a cambiare il mondo” (qtd. in Coletti 340).

73 described, a trait that has made consistent appearances in novelistic narratives since the 1700s (Coletti 340).

It is worth noting the absence of news stories, initially, regarding Mirta’s and Robin’s deaths by overdose; or, rather, Mirta reads nothing about it because she does not think to check the newspapers immediately afterward, and she is too frightened to be seen by live humans. It is only once an event occurs that has some relation to Mirta—namely, the robbery at Mirta’s parents’ house, followed soon after by Susy’s death—that events that otherwise might have been ignored are reported in the news:

Scorro i titoli. Interviste. Trafiletti. Notarelle. Riquadri. Oddio! Cos’è questo. Una ventina di righe, anche meno. Un furto. Nella villa di un noto avvocato di Foligno. Poche righe. Un cenno appena. Ieri pomeriggio, in assenza dei proprietari. Hanno buttato per aria la casa. I proprietari sono sconvolti, anche perché solo pochi giorni fa avevano subìto la tragica perdita della figlia e la sacrilega profanazione della sua tomba […]. (I.177)

Evidently, the figlia is Mirta, the proprietari are her parents, and the sacrilega profanazione was really Mirta’s own resurrection. Additionally, she was the one who had visited in the absence of her parents; she was the reason for the headline, and this snippet was reported likely because of the “juicy” reason behind her parents’ disturbance. Finally, when Mirta’s killings become less spread out, both geographically and temporally, news reportings about the “mostro del Subasio”—the term for the serial killer in the area, the identity of whom is unknown but whom the reader, of course, knows to be Mirta—become more commonplace. This technique or, rather, this convention to omit news from newspapers and to report on it only when “more important” events occur that make the first event relevant, is not uncommon, as Tonon explains:

Un giovane ricoverato per sospetta overdose non viene di solito degnato di una riga nemmeno in pagina locale, ma in giorni in cui infuria la polemica sulla diffusione dell’ecstasy nelle discoteche, se si tratta proprio di questa droga e se è stata presa in un locale da ballo fa notizia e finisce in nazionale. (97)

This accurate reflection on Palazzolo’s part of journalistic story-telling is unsurprising, since Palazzolo worked for many years as a journalist (Capozzo).

We move from the journalistic to the colloquial now, with what Gianni, Mirta’s strange new friend, explains to her as Luna: “Stanno facendo fuori della gente e si sono inventati il mostro perché gli fa comodo” (I.301). She replies, immediately, after both of them had joked about being the famed mostro del Subasio: “Stanno chi, chiedo.” In normal colloquial conversation, the

74 third-person plural, loro, is used to refer to an undefined third party who is the originator of an opinion or fact; and, normally, the listener does not request clarification as to whom the originator is. Here, however, Mirta breaks the informal goals of the conversation with this charming stranger to obtain more information. His response is ironic: “Loro, dice con assoluta certezza,” and then he explains: “Il governo. I servizi segreti. Le lobby. I poteri occulti. I soliti, insomma.” He gives the vaguest of answers in the most precise way possible: “The usual.”

Also a sign of colloquial register appears in the naming of La Susy. Susy is the only person, female or male, in the book whose name is preceded by a definite article.102 This convention is not atypical of some varieties of spoken Italian, notably of septentrional Italian. Furthermore, the use of the article before the first names of females is documented in the works even of the most highly-regarded Italian writers, while the first names of males are “extremely rarely” preceded by definite articles (Setti). Nonetheless, when the article is used by speakers, Setti explains,

implica sempre una certa notorietà del nome proprio cui si accompagna, dovuta a legame amicale- affettivo nell’uso familiare e confidenziale (la sfumatura familiare è comunque variamente avvertita), giustificato invece da un precedente riferimento all’interno di un testo in contesti di registro più alto. (Setti)

Susy was the babysitter or nanny of the Fossati family103—“È la nostra ragazza” (I.51)—and had become, in essence, a member and a fixture of the Fossati family, thus justifying the use of la in front of her name, not to mention the possessive nostra in front of the unremarkable ragazza. Additionally, however, I would argue that the definite article is not unlike the article that would precede baby sitter: la Susy / la baby sitter. Though the use of the article could, as Setti suggested, imply a certain familiarity, the nominalising of her very personal name would simultaneously imply an imposition of distance between the Fossati family and the nanny, rendering her closer to an object than a person:

L’uso dell’articolo determinativo con un nome proprio produce quindi, almeno in parte, una perdita del tratto della proprietà, avvicinando il nome proprio a un nome comune: in questo senso è quindi sconsigliato con i nomi di persona in quanto toglie in parte il senso dell’unicità e dell’inconfondibilità dell’individuo. (Setti)

102 See I.9 for its first use. 103 See the quotation pertaining to her identity in the newspaper excerpt on p. 72.

In the aftermath of Susy’s murder, the article before Susy is especially striking in how it further underlines the character’s inanimate state: “Entro in bagno. Nella vasca, c’è la Susy” (I.191).

Another note related to register and orality arises in the left dislocations, which are not infrequent in the text. Most of these appear in speech (as on I.147, I.348, and I.358): “La odio questa roba” (I.34); “Adesso te li togli questi benedetti occhiali […]?” (I.147); “il furto l’ho commesso io stessa” (I.178); “E dire che Mirta aveva paura dell’acqua alta. E che a Ravello quei tuffi li avrebbe proprio evitati” (I.226); “Sai che le bugie le dici malissimo, Mirtina?” (I.348); “Ti ci porto io in Toscana” (I.358). The dislocations (in addition to other grammatical peculiarities) are common and well documented in Italian speech,104 and they are present in the Trilogia both in dialogues and monologues. Here are a few more examples: “Tanto la strada la trovo” (I.108); “Lo zaino l’ho mollato” (I.109); “[…] quei tuffi li avrebbe proprio evitati” (I.226).

Similarly, the presence of the che polivalente is a symptom of writing imitating speech; Michele Cortelazzo (“Lingua italiana” 109) outlines the different uses of this comprehensive form of the relative pronoun and conjunction: “che congiunzione polivalente (con valore finale, causale o consecutivo: Aspetta che te lo spiego) e pronome relativo onnivalente (La sera che ti ho incontrato).” Instances of the che polivalente in Mirta-Luna follow, all of which, except for the first, are expressed orally by characters other than Mirta: “A lui piace solo roba datata, che certe volte proprio non lo capisco […]” (I.106); “fatti una pippata che ce ne andiamo in paradiso!” (I.148); “Lasciala andare, che ce la portiamo tutti sulla coscienza” (I.330); “Sono arrivato alla discarica che dovevano essere le quattro” (I.342).

While some of the abovementioned traits are intimately connected to register, namely a general variance between spoken and written registers, the paragraphs that follow specifically examine the cultural implications of register. Dialect also comes into play in some of these examples, even making basic appearances in the orthography; Mario Cerruti’s first meeting with Mirta offers an instance of this, where belli is employed in speech instead of begli in front of the opening vowel of occhioni: “Adesso te li togli questi benedetti occhiali e fai vedere questi belli

104 Antonelli underlines this oral convention via examples from Un posto al sole, the long-running Italian soap opera (Antonelli, ISC 120; Antonelli, “Sessanta” 685): “Nelle battute dei vari personaggi trovano posto tratti tipici della simulazione del parlato, come le dislocazioni (Io voglio sap’ in sintesi a te che ti serve), e il ci attualizzante (Non c’ho l’età) o i dimostrativi ’sto e ’sta (Trovalo ’sto tempo).”

76 occhioni a Mario tuo?” (I.147).105 Indeed, the plot of the Trilogia takes place in Italy, in the Subasio region in Perugia, but there are also recurrent mentions of the surrounding areas of Rome, Fiumicino, Orte, Terni, Narni, l’Autosole, and also Milan and even Brussels, where Robin’s mother lives. Palazzolo knew these areas well: she spent most of her life in Rome, where she ultimately was laid to rest in 2012, though she was originally from Catania. Mirta regularly has interactions with people from these locations in Italy that were dear to Palazzolo in her lifetime, but touches of exoticism—if they can be called such—pepper some scenes, such as when Mirta-Luna hitches a ride with the charming Peter da Manchester, a trucker from England.

Although not directly related to register, the intimacy—or lack thereof—that is made evident between certain characters via the names that these characters employ to address or refer to each other merits attention: “Papà diede solo uno sguardo e tornò dentro all’istante. Imbracciò il fucile e fece fuoco. […] Fra le urla di Mirta e di sua madre […], il gatto selvatico volò per aria […]” (I.204), Mirta recounts in the middle of Non mi uccidere. While she still refers to her father with his affectionate title,106 the emotional and experiential distance from her former self107 is made manifest in her referring to herself in the third person and her identification of her mother not as Mamma or even mia madre, but as sua madre, the mother of Mirta, and with neither of whom does she have an emotional connection (on I.89, she does say, “Devo dirlo alla mamma,” but not “a mamma”). A further indication of the emotional closeness of certain characters, as evidenced by the language used in the text and the characters’ comportments in their daily lives, is shown in Mirta’s rifling through the deceased Susy’s purse. She finds “[u]n’agendina. La sfoglio. […] Nomi misti a cognomi. Un guazzabuglio. Anche il cellulare di papà, sotto la pi. Piero, c’è scritto davanti. C’è anche il mio. Mirta. E quello di mamma. Sotto la effe. Fossati Amalia. Piero” (I.204). Though Susy had been employed by both of Mirta’s parents, as a unit, as their children’s babysitter, Susy’s closer relationship with Mirta’s father is made manifest by the first-name basis

105 Rather than being an overt morphological spelling error or demonstrating a lack of education on the part of the speaker, it indicates the influence of a Roman dialect (thank you to Franco Pierno for pointing this out). The next paragraphs explicate the connection between register and dialect in more detail. 106 We discover, also, that the term of endearment is used exclusively to refer to one’s own father: on I.30, Mirta refers to two fathers, her own and Francesco’s, as “papà e il padre di Francesco.” 107 She says, only a few lines earlier, “al tempo in cui ero viva” to provide the context of the tale she was preparing to recount.

77 that evidently characterises their rapport, which becomes clear to the reader simply by the seemingly banal but exquisitely meaningful entry in the babysitter’s phonebook.

For the Italian reader, little about the geography needs to be explained, nor do expressions like “ragazzo di paese” (I.50) require clarification. Indeed, Mirta refers, derogatively, to her ex- boyfriend as “un ragazzo di paese”; this poor boy’s undesirability based on his small-town upbringing is alluded to earlier as well: “Le voci al mio paese fanno presto a girare. È un posto talmente piccolo” (I.28). Meanwhile, Robin has links to diverse parts of Italy and to Belgium; his age and exoticism are physically distant from a small paese, and, possibly, his “worldliness” (not to mention his age and experience) may make him a more attractive partner.

Furthermore, the reader discovers toward the end of Non mi uccidere that Robin’s best friend, Giacom(in)o, better known as Paco to his friends, had secretly vied for Mirta since Mirta and Robin’s first meeting.108 Paco claims that he was supposed to be the one that Mirta ended up with, not Robin109—that he was the one who truly loved her, as Mirta herself acknowledges.110 Nonetheless, he found himself face to face with her a month after her death, she, covered in mud and blood, he, on his Yamaha motorcycle, convinced by Mirta to give her a ride. What is significant in these facts is that Paco, like in many a contemporary undead romance, is presented for the first time in the latter part of the book as the jilted lover. He is the other man who, with or without reason, believes he “has a chance,” due to his misinterpreting friendly behaviours on the part of the beloved, well-meaning heroine, or due to confusing acts between the aforementioned and the undesired mate. In Meyer’s Twilight series, this “other man” is Jacob Black; in Smith’s The Vampire Diaries, it is Stefan Salvatore (in the end); in Harris’ Southern Vampire Mysteries, it is Eric Northman, or Alcide Herveaux.111 And in the first book of Palazzolo’s Trilogia di

108 Also: “Vedi, Mirtina, ci dovevo stare io al posto di Robin, fin da principio. Ci volevo stare io” (I.349; emphasis in original). 109 “E alla fine, per non farla tanto lunga, ti becca [Robin]. Perché ero raffreddato, quella sera. Anzi, a letto con quaranta di febbre. M’ero beccato l’influenza. E lui s’è beccato te” (I.330). 110 “Ho ucciso Paco. Forse l’unico che mi amava davvero. Così com’ero. Viva o morta. Buona o cattiva. Mirta o Luna o Mirtina” (II.66). 111 Or any number of vampires or shapeshifters that lust for the fae heroine’s charm or blood, or both, at any given time.

Mirta-Luna, it is Paco who is the rejected potential lover—and one who brings chaos later in the series.112

As the jilted lover, Paco is presented in an unfavourable light to the reader through various means—and not all of them original—and with Robin still absent even by the end of Non mi uccidere, the reader holds out hope that Robin really might be as great as Mirta describes him to be, should the reader ever meet him. Matt elucidates a first technique of negatively colouring such a character as Paco, which is employed by Moccia as well, and that is in having unsavoury characters express themselves in ways that underline their lack of culture, class, or education— that is, in Moccia’s case, by having antagonists fulfill his set dichotomies of “ricco/povero, bello/brutto, vincente/perdente, coraggioso/vigliacco e simili” (Matt 253): “Ciò che colpisce, però, è il fatto che la romanità linguistica venga implicitamente valutata in modo negativo” (253). Indeed, in Mirta’s interactions not just with Paco but with Mario as well—both of whom repulse Mirta, and the second of whom she kills shortly after meeting him—it is evident that Palazzolo uses the abovementioned technique as well, though somewhat less explicitly, as the reader is left in the dark about either character’s origins and few, if any, dialect terms are truly employed. Matt explains that,

[i]nfatti nel parlato dei personaggi principali — tutti, è utile notare, appartenenti a una zona altolocata di Roma — i regionalismi sono pochi e generalmente poco marcati, mentre la situazione è molto diversa per certi personaggi minori, descritti come inferiori o moralmente (nella storia hanno la parte dei malvagi) o socialmente (fanno lavori umili o comunque sono poveri). Molto spesso, insomma, l’opposizione italiano/romanesco sembra essere utilizzata in modo assai schematico […]. (253–254)

While Palazzolo avoids having Paco and Mario use dialectal terms, their manner of speaking features stylistic and idiolectal characteristics typical of “un ragazzo di paese,” as Mirta unflatteringly describes her ex-boyfriend, Francesco, or someone coarse and uneducated. It would be fitting for Mirta to be juxtaposed with such characters and to have her be uninterested in them, as she herself is—or was—a studious, dedicated student with a highly-educated lawyer for a father, as well as an individual who despised parolacce. Highlighting the stark contrast

112 It must also be noted, too, that Mirta, when romancing and being romanced by Sara, her undead lover, the latter feels jilted and has a preconceived and enraging jealous idea that she will never be to Mirta what Robin was to her, no matter what harm he had done to her and how he had betrayed her. In this case, Mirta has two jilted lovers, but only one is completely rejected as a potential paramour (Paco), while Sara and Mirta do entertain a romantic and physical relationship.

79 between their idiolects, Paco strikingly talks about and refers to himself in the third person on occasion, as in the following examples:

Mollo casa per mezzora, e me la trovo saccheggiata. A casa di Paco, da cui la gente gira al largo. (I.318) Ed entrare da me è quasi impossibile. Nessuno entra da Paco. Credevo che stessero cercando qualcosa su di te, visto che anche la tua tomba era stata profanata. (I.348) Dice, non preoccuparti, adesso c’è Paco. (I.358)

Palazzolo has Mario do this as well: “fai vedere questi belli occhioni a Mario tuo” (I.147) and “Guarda qua, dice, che bella sorpresa ti fa Mario tuo” (I.148). Of course, one must bear in mind that Mirta refers to herself in the third person regularly, speaking in such a way when she no longer identifies with her former self:113 “E dire che Mirta aveva paura dell’acqua alta” (I.226). The ways in which Mirta and Paco treat the third person when speaking of themselves is different, however, as has been discussed elsewhere.114

Third-person preferences to refer to the self aside, Mario and Paco both exhibit if not low- register manners of expressing themselves, then manners that contrast very clearly with how Mirta herself speaks. In Mirta’s first few moments with Mario in his car, she deduces—in a deprecating, (pre)judgmental fashion—that “Questo è uno che manco i giornali legge” (I.143). Mirta’s speech and narration are practically indistinguishable, the former being marked as speech only when another person is present and with a speech tag such as dico or chiedo; her register or tone changes only when she is unimpressed (as she is here) or extremely angry. In the following examples (all of which but the first, spoken by Mario, are uttered by Paco), we observe stylistic

113 Once again, on I.237, Mirta looks at herself as though separate from herself, but she looks at Luna in this way as well, observing both emotional sides of the same physical person with detachment: “Mi sono guardata nello specchio della trousse. E ho visto il volto di Mirta. E però, anche qualcosa di diverso. Luna, immagino. Che ovviamente ha lo stesso, identico volto di Mirta. È Mirta. Però è Luna.” And shortly thereafter: “Mi piace questa Luna. Fa’ pensare a quelle frasi stupide, che usano i ragazzi per attaccare discorso: tu non sei di qui, vero?” (I.237). 114 Indeed, the quirk of speaking in the third person, called illeism in English, can point to such idiosyncrasies as egocentricity (illeism is sometimes linked to “hubris syndrome”); underdeveloped sociolinguistic capabilities in infants, who do not yet understand at a young age the co-referents of pronouns and may be subject to the influence of their own parents who refer to themselves as “Mommy” or “Daddy” in the presence of the child; and a willingness or wish to create distance between the self and the third-person subject. Several newspaper articles have been published recently on the topic, thanks to a recent U.S. president-elect’s illeist tendencies. See Barford, “Why Do Some People Refer to Themselves in the Third Person?”, and Fisher, “The Psychological Case for Talking in the Third Person,” the latter of whom underlines that individuals who practice illeism, like basketball player Lebron James, consciously or otherwise manifest “a tendency that […] contribute[s] to […] being characterized as narcissistic, self-obsessed and detached from reality.”

80 nuances that betray the education of the speaker,115 with interesting instances of indirect discourse as well (as in Paco’s recountings on I.319 and I.329):

E cacciati ’sti maledetti occhiali! urla. Allungando una zampata verso il mio viso. […] Ci guardiamo un momento. Ma che tieni agli, dice. Senza fiato. […] Dice, ma che c’hai agli occhi. […] Urla, mo’ basta, hai capito! Basta! […] Ma che cazzo c’hai sulle mani, dice. (I.149) Ops, scusa, Mirtina, ma sono fuori come un balcone. E gli altri! Chi cristo sono? Nessuno s’è mai permesso. Entrare in casa di Paco. Io me ne vado. Ho chiuso tutto nella quattro per quattro e sparisco. Il tempo di dare una smaltita a ’sta robaccia. Per questo stavo alla discarica. […] Pensavo, Robin. Uno di questi giorni, mi strippo e me lo ritrovo davanti. Una strippata doc, e mi ritrovo davanti Robin, che mi butta una pacca sulle spalle e strilla, uhey, Giacomino bello! E invece, tu. Vuol dire che, nel profondo, laggiù, ci stavi avanti. Clic clic clic e le cose che stavano dietro vengono avanti e quelle avanti finiscono dietro. E paff, mi ritrovo davanti Mirtina al posto di Robin. (I.319) Che ci faceva bene e ci faceva male, insieme, a parlare di Mirtina […], dice. Perché, ogni santa volta, ci scazzavamo. Cioè, fra di noi, regolare. Ma anche con noi. Lui con lui e io con io, voglio dire. Perché c’avevamo lo scrupolo, per Mirtina. Che cazzo ci faceva Mirtina con noi. […] Tutto ’sto casino per Mirtina. (I.328) Shhh, fa lui. Fa’ silenzio e passami ’sta canna, è pronta o no? E fattela una tirata, che ti dà un po’ di vita. Non mi piace proprio ’sta faccetta scura che hai. (I.329) C’è una fata, in questo paese. La figlia dell’avvocato Fossati. E lui: figurati, quella c’ha dieci anni! Una di dieci anni, mi diventi un porco. No, gli ho detto, c’avrà pure avuto dieci anni. Ma mica può averci sempre dieci anni. È cresciuta, no? Ed è cresciuta da dio. E quando ha visto Mirtina,116 ha detto: be’, non c’ha più dieci anni.117 E basta. Sai com’era Robin. Ma io ho cominciato a scassargli le palle. A dirgli che una fata così nasce ogni cent’anni, in questo paese. E insomma, dagli e dagli siamo arrivati a una specie di scommessa. Chi ci arriva per primo, questo genere di cose. Perché mi scocciava fare le cose da solo. Va bè che eri una fata, però che gusto c’era senza sfida? Senza sfidarci tra noi? (I.329) […] in questo momento mi sto scazzando con Robin. Che parla sempre, da qualche parte nella mia testa. E mi sta dando del pezzo di merda, capisci? (I.349)

Few moments apart from these point to a linguistic and stylistic variant between the medietà of Mirta’s speech and the decided informality of Mario’s and Paco’s speech patterns. As Matt emphasises in his essay, Moccia’s supposed ability to replicate Romanesco in the speech of his fictional characters falls short of perfect, yet his readers—arguably more important than critics, since they are the ones being entertained and captivated by the literature—appreciate and identify his style as one that they use and understand. Indeed, Palazzolo’s semi-contemporaries

115 Perhaps it is not that any instance of ’sti, instead of questi, and c’hai necessarily, per se, identify a lack of education; rather, it is the contrast between Mirta’s speech and its lack of such traits and the speech of her interlocutors here that highlights the differing backgrounds. 116 Note that Paco uses the third person even when the person about whom he is speaking is his current interlocutor. 117 Because, by this point in the series (in Non mi uccidere), the reader has not met Robin, it is not possible to know if this is how Robin actually spoke and if he used these expressions or if, instead, this is the loose paraphrasing of his friend who adds his own style to colour the narrative.

81 in the Cannibali exhibit talents and abilities to replicate the speech of their generation, which features “coprolalic and pornolalic expressions” whose quality, Lucamante insists, “is authentic and real” (20). Furthermore, the jargon employed by the characters—“jargon” being Lucamante’s expression—draws its origins from “neo-standard Italian and [is] directly derived from regional expressions[,]” reflecting very closely the lexicon employed informally “on an everyday basis by the average Italian, […] [resulting in] an even stronger Italian flavor and resonance” (20).

With regard to Palazzolo’s representation of substandard—or neo-standard—linguistic traits, it is possible that the author wished merely to include subtle dialectal shibboleths in the speech of these antagonists without having these characters speak in a language that might alienate or be incomprehensible to some readers, which a more realistic representation might do.118 Whatever her skills at accurately representing the substandard varieties of speech employed by some of her less savoury characters, the appeal to the audience is still great, as critics readily acknowledge.119

5.4 Leitmotifs

Antonelli, when describing the novel Almost blue by Carlo Lucarelli, presents an interesting narrative technique:

[M]olte tra le scene principali sono rese facendo ricorso alla tecnica dell’inquadratura in soggettiva. Assumendo il punto di vista del versipelle serial killer, Lucarelli cerca di rendere il confuso affollarsi dei suoi pensieri e attraverso questi pensieri rimanda indirettamente al lettore le immagini del delitto appena commesso. Secondo un altro procedimento cinematografico, quello del Leitmotiv, quando l’assassino entra in scena, il romanzo cambia registro musicale e l’accompagnamento viene affidato al metallico e distorto tocco del rock duro, lasciando la parola

118 Matt explains: “Si legga il seguente passo, in cui si ha una chiosa che sembra avere la funzione di contestualizzare la battuta di dialogo ad uso dei non romani, ma che è del tutto inutile: «“E da quando in qua ti sei imparato ’sti termini?” Mi lascio andare volutamente al mio ruvido romano» […]. In realtà di connotato in senso regionale nella battuta c’è solo l’uso pronominale di imparare; il dimostrativo ’sti è sì comune a Roma ma non costituisce un elemento caratterizzante, visto che fa parte del parlato informale di tutta Italia. Se avesse usato davvero un «ruvido romano» il personaggio avrebbe detto qualcosa come «E mo’ da quanno te sei imparato ’ste parole?»” (254). 119 Critics such as Trifoni and Bianchi, respectively, had the following to say: “[…] pur essendo ascrivibile al genere horror, la storia di Mirta-Luna ha una precisa valenza psicologica e sociale: può essere letta come una radiografia del [sic] bad girl di oggi, delle loro fragilità e della loro ribellione all’ingresso in una vita adulta opaca e priva di sogni” (Trifoni qtd. in Terminelli, Tanto ormai… 127); and “Con una scrittura ambiziosa che aspira a ricreare sulla pagina i ritmi e i tagli del parlato e del pensato, Chiara Palazzolo solca le acque buie dell’horror e del fantanoir, nel tentativo di captare sensazioni e sentimenti (rabbia in primo luogo) dei teen-agers di oggi” (Bianchi qtd. in Terminelli, Tanto ormai… 127).

ai rintocchi ossessivi delle Hell’s bells degli AC/DC («le sento le campane dell’Inferno») […]. (ISC 172–173)

This type of stylistic event, the inquadratura in soggettiva, happens in Non mi uccidere as well. Elena Dagrada explains that,

[p]er soggettiva si intende un’inquadratura o un insieme di inquadrature che rappresentano sullo schermo ciò che vede un personaggio, come è supposto vederlo quel personaggio, cioè dal suo esatto punto di vista, rispettando distanza e direzione che lo separano da ciò che guarda.

It is, in essence, a “point-of-view shot.” Mirta, too, commits crimes and kills in the first person, and the reader views not the aftermath but Mirta’s immediate reactions and reflexes.

Additionally, the book has its own leitmotifs, both in the presence of Wittgenstein and, most notably, in the first line of the chorus of Cat Stevens’ “Wild World” (1970), which is almost always cited in English, as per the original lyrics: “Oh, baby, baby, it’s a wild world” (I.83; cited seven times, plus another inclusion with the following verse, on a new line, to close the chapter: “I’ll always remember you like a child, girl”). After the sixth time referring to the “wild world,” Mirta provides, in passing, a self-translation: “Perché è un mondo selvaggio, ma anche pieno di luce e canti e calore […]” (emphasis added). From there, the imagery of the mondo selvaggio becomes a leitmotif in the first book,120 reminiscent of the leitmotif of the “Savage Garden”—of beauty coexisting with utter horror in the world of mortals—in Rice’s Vampire Chronicles:121 “E Witt ha detto che i benandanti stanno tornando. Witt. L’unico essere gentile in questo mondo selvaggio” (I.369); “Ed è un piacere, tornare a correre in macchina sull’autostrada […] [c]on […] qualcuno con cui chiacchierare. In questo mondo selvaggio, non è poco” (I.427).

The imagery of the wild world where all humans are savage is recurrent, namely in the first book; more precisely, in Mirta’s skewed view, everyone but her, the zombie with unbridled hunger, is savage and cannot be tamed or trusted. Though the lyrics to “Wild World” and the phrase “mondo selvaggio” are the clearest indicators of this value system of hers, an Italian referent is employed as well in the form of the song “Welcome” by the Italian group M@D (“Welcome”):

120 But it returns even in the second book: “Baby, baby, e poi?” (II.44). 121 Though the famous Australian pop group from the late ’90s and early 2000s, Savage Garden, took their name from the Chronicles and not the other way around.

The nature, the animals the dangers in the jungle (I.138)

THE NATURE, THE ANIMALS THE DANGERS IN THE JUNGLE! (I.139)

This inclusion alongside the following quoted lyrics is remarkable because it shows the coexistence of media in Italy from various countries and the understanding of these diverse references; this could exist only in a book for savvy young Italians and could not occur in a book for savvy young North-American anglophones, since the latter are part of the dominant culture, and the former, part of the dominated.

Now, I’ve been happy lately, thinking about the good things to come And I believe it could be, something good has begun. (I.150) Now come and join the living, it’s not so far from you And it’s getting nearer, soon it will all be true. (I.151) Get your bags together, go bring your friends too Cause it’s getting nearer, it soon will be with you. (I.151)122

Finally, however, Mirta’s somewhat whimsical and aloof acceptance of the world as being wild suffers a dark transformation and precipitates a grim realisation after Mirta unavoidably and regrettably (I.199) takes the life of her former babysitter:

Questo non è più un mondo selvaggio. Non lo è più da quando sono sbucata dalla terra e ho preso a camminare tra i viventi. È diventato un mondo orrido. Terrificante. Un mondo infernale. L’intero mondo, ormai, non è altro che una gran tavola imbandita su cui strisciano123 milioni di vermi affamati. E tutti quei vermi sono io. (I.201)

To open the second part of the book, Palazzolo includes the following lyrics from Cat Stevens’ “Another Saturday Night” (1974; it is originally by Sam Cooke [1964]): “Now, how I wish I had someone to talk to [/] I’m in an awful way” (I.111). What is curious and notable about this is that, in the rest of the book, translations of other English lyrics are not provided; here, she includes the Italian translation, “Quanto vorrei avere qualcuno con cui parlare [/] ora che sto così male” (I.111), likely because she deems the lyrical preface vital to representing the feelings that Mirta suffers in the pages that follow. Pages and moments later, Mirta finds herself in the parking lot of the bar and lyrics flash through her mind: “Now, how I wish I had someone to talk to” (I.123; it is

122 These are all Cat Stevens lyrics, from the song “Peace Train” (1971). 123 The image of slithering reappears in Mirta’s disturbing depiction of herself.

84 a sentence on its own line with no final period). In the next paragraph, she offers an indirect translation—that is, what follows is not a direct translation of the lyric, like on I.111; rather, Mirta re-emphasises the sentiment in Italian via paraphrasing: “È per questo, ricordi. Che sei venuta fin qui. Per avere qualcuno con cui parlare. Per non perderti nella solitudine della morte. Come diceva Robin? Ti amerò per sempre perché voglio che mi parli per sempre” (I.123).

Two pages later, the lyric reappears in a different shape when Mirta is face to face with a live human who is asking her a question, and she finds herself unable to speak: “Now, how I wish I’m someone to talk to” (again, with no final period, floating, as it were, on I.125). Not only does Palazzolo skilfully employ lyrics to mirror the psychological situation in which her protagonist finds herself, but she craftily manipulates the lyrics to reflect contextual shifts that suit the plot. When Mirta finally manages to utter a word to one who was temporarily barring her entry, she is allowed into the bar, at which point the lyric flashing across her mind is “Welcome to the jungle” (I.125). Mirta is submerged in a sensory wilderness that renders her practically unresponsive due to the myriad scents and sights and sounds of humans surrounding her. The gravity of the lyrics booms within her and the lyrics punctuate various scenes in these next few pages:

MIRTA? The nature, the animals

MIRTA, CAZZO, RISPONDI! Odore. Musica. Welcome to the jungle. Robin dice. Schifo. The nature, the animals the dangers in the jungle

MIRTA! Mi hanno vista. Mi hanno parlato. Che odore terribile. Dappertutto. Perché Robin dice schifo. Siamo nella giungla, nella giungla. Sì, però è solo una canzone. Mirta, per favore, togliti dalla pista. Trovati un posto a sedere. Togliti di lì. Mirta? The nature, the animals The dangers in the jungle (I.126)

She can barely navigate the chaos in this jungle of overwhelming sensation:

Mi tolgo, mi tolgo. Ritmo. Che odore. Si può affondare in questo odore. Siediti. Cioè sì, adesso mi siedo. Mi hanno parlato. Mi hanno vista. Mi fanno passare. Mi guardano. The nature, the animals Mi viene da ridere. Come rido male, tutto strozzata. Cos’è questo odore. Fortissimo. Non sono bella? Non sono una figa persa? Una strafiga scoppiata? The dangers in the jungle Luce e ritmo e colore. Gente e odore. Nella giungla dei viventi. […] (I.126)

Finally, “the jungle” is properly defined; however, in the climax of this scene, we discover that the “jungle” for Mirta differs from the one perceived by humans—namely, the heterosexual males—in Mirta’s immediate vicinity. For them, the jungle is Mirta:

Nella giungla dei viventi. E mi guardano. Gli uomini. Che c’è da guardare. Mi devo spostare. Sedere a un tavolo. Bere qualcosa. Accavallare piano piano le mie belle gambe tutte irrigidite e dire. THE NATURE, THE ANIMALS THE DANGERS IN THE JUNGLE Volete venire nella giungla con me? Nel bosco oscuro pieno di strida e richiami. Chiudi gli occhi. Gustati la sensazione. Ragazzi, sono morta e mi state spogliando con gli occhi. Entrate tutti, coraggio. Benvenuti nella giungla. La giungla sussurrante di Mirta. (I.126–127)

6 Summary and Conclusions

In this chapter, I demonstrated the indisputable influence of the English-speaking world’s paranormal romance on the burgeoning Italian equivalent, comparing the style of the latter to that of the former. These comparisons also unexpectedly featured the presentation, on behalf of Terminelli, of the influence on Palazzolo of McCarthy’s decidedly unromantic fictional writings, an influence that left its trace particularly on the form and format (and lack thereof) of direct discourse in Palazzolo’s undead-romance narrative. Building upon discussions initiated in Chapter 1, I offered different possibilities of genre classifications for Palazzolo’s Trilogia di Mirta-Luna, observing Palazzolo’s style in light of the stylistic traits of the rosa, chick-lit, young-adult novels, and splatter stories, as the Trilogia exemplifies a unique blend and balance of major traits of the aforementioned genres and subgenres. Thus, I began with a definitive justification of the classification of the series along a continuum between the romance subgenres of chick-lit and teen-lit, with important horror elements. I examined traits relating to the content of the story, such as register, and followed characteristics strictly connected to the arrangement of the words on the page, characteristics like short sentences or frasi spezzate, which influence the interpretation of the plot and add depth to the meaning of the protagonist’s first-hand recounted experience. The particular manner in which lexical and formulaic repetitions are exploited and the punctuation, spacing, and formatting conventions are employed reveal the

86 states of mind of the protagonist, though these characteristics in particular will be explored and analysed with more profound specificity in Chapter 3.

All of these patterns and traits were intentionally chosen by the author, I argue throughout the chapter, to achieve specific results in the narrative, such as those of underlining Mirta-Luna’s distance from her loved ones; her concurrent desires to return to her former life but also to eschew it forever; and her struggle in her undead life to live, to survive, and to find purpose. Mirta-Luna’s diaristic stream-of-consciousness narrations are chaotic, tragic, messy, and elegant, all at once; this is a perfect reflection, I maintain, of the lack of order, sense, and structure of her new immortal existence. No element in this story’s structural form is inserted in vain; every single element is a vital piece of Mirta-Luna’s universe. As a result, the reader can, with true facility, inhabit the space with the protagonist, no matter how fantastical the romance or the horror is.

I conclude that, while this series has young adults as its focal readers (despite Piemme’s preference to classify the series as “Adult Thriller”), the true abode, so to speak, for this series truly has many locations: the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna bears characteristics from horror and romance novels, namely chick-lit and teen-lit works. This classification is important, as it permits me and future researchers to compare this work of literature, which is part of a still- developing subgenre, to works that share narrative and stylistic traits and whose intended audience is often mirrored, however abstractly, in the fictional lives of the protagonists. Having facilitated this classification, perhaps, in future research, we may delve deeper into the consciousness of the Italian populace to discover why (or why not) the romantic undead hold such appeal over the minds of the young and, often, female.

The fascination with the undead or immortal—zombie, vampire, or otherwise—may boil down to a passing fad in the Western world in the eyes of some, as demonstrated by the works of contemporary American authors like Meyer and Harris. Nevertheless, I and countless other lifelong adorers of fictional vampires, many of which were dreamed up by female authors, believe that this literary (and cinematic) niche that sometimes enjoys mainstream success is as timeless as its protagonists. And as long as romantic tropes exist, specifically, in our case, the fantasy of immortal, beautiful, and powerful creatures falling for weak and boring humans, the romantic prey of immortals, these narratives will continue to unfold. In this chapter, I underlined

87 that Palazzolo, like many of her Italian contemporaries, such as Moccia, and fellow novelists from the English-speaking world, enables readers to more easily imagine these fantasies and horrors by having her characters speak just like readers do, inhabit spaces just like theirs, and suffer the same existential and facile crises as they do—by “mirroring” their lives, minus the mass murders and undead rehabilitation, of course.

“È un mondo selvaggio,” repeats the chorus in Mirta-Luna’s head as she flows through her immortal existence as an undead creature. And she believes it, understanding that she is the cause of such savagery but convinced, also, that she is a victim of it. By the end of the series, she suffers and induces tremendous violence, yet she seldom, if ever, feels true, lasting remorse or any acknowledgment of guilt or responsibility. Like an amoral monster, she is free of regret; like a naïve and innocent child, she is free of responsibility and a sense of right and wrong. She feels justified, as it was Robin who got her in this undead mess.

Through Mirta’s challenges and adventures, Palazzolo provides a look at a dark aspect of Italian literature that has long been denied. It may be worth pondering here whether this denial, or this discouragement of replication via lack of horror or undead-romance examples in Italian literature, further engendered a complex lack of faith in Italian novelists to produce such works. Thus, given the lack of native Italian works in these genres, the exotic appeal to the Italian reader of the English-speaking world, whose literature has a long history of effortlessly quenching the thirst of undead-romance readers, becomes greater, fuelling the translation of such works rather than fomenting an earnest push for native works to be composed, which would constitute much more risk on the parts of both authors and publishers.

The following merits consideration as well. I invite the reader to take a moment to observe the images on pages 126 and 127 in Chapter 3; the second features a selection of vampire novels— all by female authors from the English-speaking world—from the web site for the Italian literary magazine, Il Libraio. The titles of the works by everyone but Rice have been kept in English; the Twilight series, which is not pictured in these images, does not have its titles translated into Italian, though this is not the case for all translations of Meyer’s series. Indeed, in the

88 francophone world, all of Meyer’s book titles have been translated.124 The exoticism of the English novel in Italy may render less necessary a linguistic adaptation of teen-lit titles in Italian, whereas the politics surrounding local linguistic pride in France may encourage the translation of the titles. With Rice’s books, the audience of which consists primarily of adult heterosexual females,125 I surmise that the exoticism of English is not as much of a necessary or attractive draw for older readers—or, given Rice’s reputation as a long-standing fixture and even founder of contemporary vampire fiction, the writer’s name and characters are enough to draw the reader’s attention.

As Brolli says in the introductory pages of Gioventù cannibale (V–X), horror and gratuitous violence have long been discouraged as inadmissible in Italian writing, save for in the cronaca nera or when an ethical lesson needs to be explored. “Ben strana la sorte del narratore italiano,” Brolli laments, stating that Italian writers, until very recently, were of a culture that had censored “con efficacia ogni possibilità di portare nella narrazione gli effetti devastanti delle pulsioni primarie” (VI). Evidently, however, authors like Palazzolo did not censor themselves, all while exploring the comparatively tame themes of love, rejection, and abandonment. Love and horror coexist in these undead romances—alongside the cronaca nera and valuable life lessons—thanks to Palazzolo’s skilful story-telling.

Palazzolo craftily tells an alternative coming-of-age story of growing up in a truly wild world. Her complex narrative of Mirta-Luna, the self-conscious, sentient zombie in a literal eternal struggle between her clashing identities, is represented via myriad linguistic, narrative, and stylistic techniques, described in this chapter; her linguistic and stylistic manifestation of the world of those individuals who live on the cusp of adulthood and who struggle in surfing the wild tide is creatively and uniquely told through the eyes and direct experiences of this young woman who had just come of age both in life and in (un)death. Though Palazzolo is, sadly, deceased, the works she has left behind are a gift to language scholars as well as literary

124 Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, and Breaking Dawn correspond, respectively, to Fascination, Tentation, Hésitation, and Révélation in the French novels as translated by Luc Rigoureau and released by Hachette Jeunesse publishing house. Note, also, that the target audience is contained right in the name of the publishing house—that is, jeunesse, “youth.” 125 At an event that I attended in Toronto on November 30, 2014, Rice expressed incredulity at some of her fans’ having read her books while in their teens—myself included.

89 scholars. As one of her critics noted, and as I mentioned earlier, the Trilogia is an unconventional bildungsroman for a new generation familiar with a different paradigm of what it means to grow up and learn to be an adult:

“Chiara Palazzolo ci fa mettere la testa in una ‘nuage’ d’horror ritratta senza effetti speciali non già per mero esercizio spiritistico, quanto per proporci una possibile riflessione su quei fulminanti momenti di crescita in cui si slargano e consumano tutti i riti di passaggio delle ragazze del nuovo millennio. Tante volte lasciate da sole a identificarsi con modelli mediali fragili, fatali e pericolosi” [58].126 La Trilogia di Mirta-Luna è quindi anche “una sorta di bildungsroman […]” [59]127 (qtd. in Terminelli127–128)128

Mirta expresses outright rejection of and lack of faith in the part of her that corresponds with Mirta: “È Mirta che mi confonde le idee. La sua persistenza dentro di me. Devo liberarmi di lei. Smetterla di volermi sentire sicura. Di cercare di essere sicura. Di proteggermi. Devo affrontare il buio. La notte. L’insicurezza. Attaccare” (I.276). This, curiously, is not unlike any young adult who faces a conceptual adversary: he or she must leave childhood and its comforts behind in order to brave the “grownup” world. Innocent Mirta is no different when she decides to leave her childhood (Mirta) behind to embrace adulthood (Luna).

The research contained in this chapter is just the beginning; the following chapter, “The Language of the ‘mondo selvaggio’ of the Sopramorti in the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna,” will expand on and conclude these ideas, delving deeper into the linguistic nuance of the smaller fragments of language, such as punctuation, orthography, formatting, and lexicon. You are initiated and prepared, then: “Entrate tutti, coraggio. Benvenuti nella giungla. La giungla sussurrante di Mirta” (I.126–127).

126 Vittorio Barresi, [no title], L’Avanti (19 June 2005). 127 Elissa Piccinini, [no title], Horrormania (June 2007). 128 As mentioned earlier, Terminelli is Palazzolo’s widower. He wrote a book after his wife’s death, called Tanto ormai… (2015), which recounts the hospitalisation and subsequent passing of his wife and what went wrong throughout her hospitalisation and care.

Chapter 3 The Language of the “mondo selvaggio” of the Sopramorti in the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna

1 Introduction: Separating Macro Trends from Micro Ones in Part Two of the Analysis of the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna

The present chapter complements the study contained in Chapter 2 on the style of writing employed by Chiara Palazzolo in the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna and the genre into which it falls— that is, the “undead romance” more specifically, which is a blend of the overarching genres of horror and romance. While fiction whose plot centres around the two parent genres might have readers from a wide range of age groups in its audience, Palazzolo’s undead-romance hybrid appears to be aimed at teenaged and young-adult females. Its conception, formulation, and publication in the early 2000s place the characters and readers of this story at a technological turning point in the readers’ non-fiction world, a place where the navigation of recently- developed modes of communication and writing, including text messaging on mobile phones and e-mails, is only just becoming commonplace. Although Palazzolo was a generation older than Mirta and most of the members of Mirta’s posse, she still was tremendously successful at captivating and imitating the ways in which these individuals interacted and communicated, both via technology and in face-to-face interactions.129

Indeed, despite this age gap, Palazzolo demonstrates (consciously or otherwise) in the manner in which she produces sharp, concise written prose that she is a product of her environment as well. While this may be apparent in the genre of the series (published amidst the height of “Twilight mania”), the stylistic properties featured in the narrative, such as syntax, register, and even the leitmotifs it contains, most clearly betray the contemporary aesthetic that Palazzolo has assumed for the telling of her undead romance. The present chapter elucidates items far more minute yet

129 I explore these key reflections of contemporary modes of communication in Chapter 2; see pp. 37–38.

91 easier to zoom in on and identify, items that are analysed in a much more straightforward manner than the subtleties of register, for instance. The third chapter of this thesis investigates the use and effects of the smaller parts of Palazzolo’s written language, identifying what it is, exactly, that makes her writing so uniquely a product of her time and allows her prose to be so quickly gobbled up and absorbed by her readers. In this age of the text message and, later, of the tweet, brevity and simplicity are key for clear communication, and while I maintain that Palazzolo as a contemporary Italian writer was a member of this scene, she definitely had not jumped on the bandwagon; I dare say that she was amongst those who built and remodelled it in Italy, thanks to her own literary influences.

Having set the groundwork for this linguistic study in Chapter 2, where the reader can return to find a larger preliminary discussion of the genres, subgenres, and hybrid genres into which the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna fits;130 the plot summary of the series;131 a presentation of the language employed by the general audience of the Trilogia and its contemporaries; and the linguistic and stylistic examination proper, I can safely jump right in to the analysis of the minutiae of these works of fiction by the late Palazzolo.

In this chapter, as mentioned above, I examine the smaller linguistic traits that are common to the series (though no less significant than those discussed in Chapter 2), such as the individual lexical items, which constitute the weightiest part of this chapter, starting with a brief examination of paralinguistic items such as punctuation and formatting. A minimal analysis of orthography in the text, too, will be featured in the introductory pages of this chapter, as the role of spelling of colloquial terms, especially as uttered by the protagonist and her comrades, can be meaningful in indicating the pronunciation of the speakers and, by extension, is a further indication of Palazzolo’s skill in representing orality in her texts. I include an analysis of specific phenomena under these headers, seeking to compare these to traits in other works of Palazzolo’s contemporaries in the subgenres of chick-lit, teen-lit, horror, and, of course, the hybrid undead romance. These lists of linguistic features are by no means exhaustive and contain examples

130 See pp. 31–36. 131 See pp. 29–31.

92 primarily from the first of the three books in the trilogy; nonetheless, they are representative of the qualities that recur throughout the series.

The following pages contain many attributes that speak for themselves, though I have expanded upon some of these when extended analysis and discussion are merited, examining them side-by- side with contemporary works by authors of related genres and subgenres, such as Federico Moccia, and including summaries of findings. Finally, as in Chapter 2, the source of each characteristic under examination from Palazzolo’s trilogy is indicated by a Roman numeral followed by a period and a cardinal number; the first indicates whether the quotation or trait is taken from the first (I), second (II),132 or third (III) book in the series, while the second indicates the page number from the book in question. The two principal categories under which the specific linguistic and paralinguistic phenomena are broken down are Punctuation, Orthography, and Formatting and Lexicon; Lexicon is subdivided into nine subcategories.

2 Punctuation, Orthography, and Formatting

Elisa Tonani, in her study on the punctuation used in books by specific Italian authors, begins by listing the various goals of authors in punctuating, or not punctuating, and determines conscious and unconscious acts of punctuation:

Citando il critico francese Pierre Lepape, si possono distinguere — da una parte — autori che «font semblant de penser à autre chose. Il convient de faire comme si la ponctuation était de l’ordre de l’automatique, presque du naturel. On ponctue comme on respire, on respire comme on pense»: e — dall’altra parte — autori che utilizzano la punteggiatura «à visage découvert, à des fins de rupture, à la fois esthétique et existentielle» […]. Semplificando molto, potremmo leggere la storia dell’interpunzione come intreccio e alternanza di momenti in cui prevalgono istanze grammaticali, che comportano una punteggiatura logico-sintattica, e momenti in cui dominano le istanze dell’oralità (intese, alla maniera di Henri Meschonnic, come organizzazione poetica del discorso sulla base di un ritmo), che vanno in direzione di una valorizzazione del ruolo melodico della punteggiatura a discapito delle funzioni grammaticali, e che hanno come obiettivo di inscrivere nel testo, attraverso l’interpunzione, il ritmo della voce che narra.

132 N.B.: The second novel is out of print. All citations are taken from a digitised version of the book and may not reflect the page numbers of the print version.

Questa seconda tendenza dà pertanto origine a un dilagare dei segni per eccellenza dell’«effusion sentimentale» (punti di sospensione, punti di esclamazione, di domanda, carattere corsivo), non più però scelti, come dai romantici, in quanto «instruments possibles de l’inscription, malgré tout, de l’inexprimable émotion», ma in quanto tracce — opache — della soggettività dell’autore e dell’intreccio polifonico di cui il romanzo è teatro. (15–16)

A lovely introduction and summary of the history of punctuation, indeed, but what does it mean in the context of our undead romance? To summarise Palazzolo’s punctuation practices in the series based simply on Tonani’s taxonomy, I would place the Trilogia’s author in the second camp, that is, amongst authors favouring “la punteggiatura «à visage découvert, à des fins de rupture, à la fois esthétique et existentielle»” (Tonani 15). Her minimalist punctuation makes manifest an intentional strategy of defining the boundaries between words, sentences, and paragraphs; each mark serves a defined purpose.

The punctuation used in this trilogy is surprising at first, namely when one encounters dialogue: when relating or imagining the speech or thoughts of others, Palazzolo uses no quotation marks at all. In fact, Palazzolo employs a series of techniques that are, even to an initiated reader, difficult to tease out. The present reader will recall that the particular style employed by Palazzolo to punctuate discourse in this series was discussed in the section 5.2 in Chapter 2;133 there, we learned from Palazzolo’s widower, Anselmo Terminelli, of the fundamental influence of American novelist Cormac McCarthy on the punctuation choices in this trilogy. We will continue to examine these in detail in this section.

Since Mirta spends most of her time alone in the first book of the trilogy, she talks to herself on occasion, but most of the narration, in fact, comprises Mirta’s thoughts. Mirta appears to be a limited omniscient narrator: she is all-knowing in her immediate experiences, but moments depicting her family’s life in her absence are narrated in the third person. These few scenes are separated from the rest of the narration in their own chapters with their own conventions of punctuation; interestingly, it is uniquely in these scenes that quotation marks are employed in dialogue. Stefania Stefanelli (132) dissects the punctuational habit of omitting quotation marks or lineette, explaining that it assists in blending discourse with action in the sections narrated by Mirta-Luna:

133 See pp. 64–71.

L’assenza delle virgolette (o delle lineette) in apertura e in chiusura del discorso diretto citato contribuisce fin dal primo sguardo a creare un continuum tra mimesi e diegesi; ma è soprattutto l’assunzione di una cifra stilistica “di grado zero”, identica a quella usata nelle altre parti del romanzo, a dare al lettore l’impressione di trovarsi di fronte a un unico discorso narrato dal protagonista che racconta il proprio vissuto con un raggelante distacco anaffettivo.

Indeed, in this stream-of-consciousness narration, it is fitting that the first-person narrator’s style in speech and in description remains consistent. In the chapters bearing conventional punctuation and narrated by a third-person narrator, Mirta is manifestly absent.

When Mirta is not speaking to herself or her thoughts are not the only elements that are guiding the narration forward, Palazzolo employs two other principal techniques: Mirta converses with the ghost of Ludwig Wittgenstein, whom she affectionately addresses as Witt and who takes on “il ruolo di coscienza filosofica di Mirta” (Lipperini); Mirta also engages with her superego, which regularly berates her and also reminds her of her past self and how much she has deviated from her former identity. Both Witt and her superego are her guides. I use the term “superego”134 to denote the nature of the latter character, but, in reality, it appears to be one part of the angel/devil dichotomy that is a part of all of us. With Mirta, it is the part of her that criticises her mercilessly and yet, sometimes, is mercilessly correct, logical, and even rational. As such, her superego embodies both angel and devil, the latter characterising it only because it is intensely patronising and rarely comforting; nonetheless, it is always ethical and corresponds with what the innocent and mortal Mirta would have wanted or how she would have acted. Mirta-Luna’s superego functions almost as though it were the ghost of Mirta who has been muted by immortality.

The reader knows that the superego is speaking via the consistent use of italics. In the excerpt below, Mirta has recently woken up in her grave and her superego is helping her to stay focussed—and not break into a wild panic—by having her recount how she met Robin:

Quando ci penso, mi viene di nuovo una tale furia che potrei. Potresti? Cosa. Cosa stavo dicendo? Stavi parlando dei tuoi compagni. Quali. I tuoi compagni di scuola. Il pub. La prima volta che hai visto Robin. Robin! Mirta, non urlare. Concentrati. (I.25)

134 See footnote 51 on p. 37 for an explanation of the use of this term.

Her superego is as firm and indulgent as a parent, as is seen above, but she135 is also a stern, sarcastic teacher who shows rather than tells, who reveals to Mirta what she may be reluctant to acknowledge. In the excerpt below, her superego, who addresses Mirta by name, knows something that she is not yet willing to break to Mirta: that Mirta does not have a beating heart.

Penso che dobbiamo andare a controllare la situazione di Robin. Forse è stata quella dannata roba. Ci ha fermato il cuore. O ce lo ha rallentato moltissimo. […] Il cuore, Mirta, hai parlato del cuore. Sì, perché l’equivoco nasce principalmente dal cuore. Quanti battiti hai, Mirta? Come? Quanti battiti hai, al minuto? In genere, settanta, settantadue. Anche ottanta, se sono un po’ agitata. Quanti battiti hai adesso, Mirta. Questo intendevo dire. (I.46)

With tolerant patience, Mirta’s superego clarifies her choice of words to her interlocutor, intent on having her understand what she means to demonstrate:

Quanti? Battiti. Pulsazioni. Tastati il polso. Dimmi quanti ne conti. Ma non credo di poter dire precisamente. All’incirca. A occhio e croce. Ma non ho un orologio! Tastati il polso, Mirta, dammi ascolto. (I.46)

Like a headstrong child, Mirta stubbornly refuses to act unless and until she is told by her superego the purpose of her superego’s demands. Her superego is blunt, and Mirta finally starts to understand:

Ma non serve a niente, senza un orologio. Dimmi se batte. Se batte. Sì, dimmi se batte. Se il tuo cuore batte. Se pompa sangue. Ossigeno ai tessuti. Vita. Vita. Tastati il polso. E dimmi cosa senti. (I.47)

The superego helps Mirta put the pieces of her sopravvita together when Mirta is too distracted by her missing lover to realise that she is not even conventionally alive. Still, despite the valuable presence of Mirta’s superego, the major part of the text is narrated by Mirta proper, who is mostly self-aware and narrates as though she is writing a journal in real time: “Sto andando al banco. Ordinerò un Cuba libre” (I.127).

135 The gendered pronoun “she” has been assigned to Mirta’s superego as it is an extension of Mirta, who identifies as a woman. See p. 49 for how she refers to “tutte le donne che si agitano senza fine dentro di me” (I.370).

The colon is used sparingly in this trilogy, as is the case with most other punctuation marks. It would have rendered these two thoughts much more clearly linked, yet Palazzolo omits it in favour of the no-nonsense full stop: “Muriel aveva scorato un’intercapedine. L’amore assoluto del padre di Mirta” (I.13).

Commas are typically used by Palazzolo to demarcate a vocative. Between pages 124 and 125 in Non mi uccidere, for instance, every vocative is followed by a comma:

Quante volte sei andata in discoteca da sola, Mirta? […] Mirta, i soldi! […] I soldi, Mirta. […] Mirta, rispondi! […] Coraggio, ragazza, vai dentro, che stai bloccando la fila. CAMMINA, MIRTA! (I.124–125)

Meanwhile, in the following example, no comma is inserted before the vocative piccola: “Diranno: vieni giù piccola, coraggio, che ti riportiamo a casa” (I.43). While other comma-less vocatives appear, they tend to be in the minority: “Sai una cosa Mirtina […]” (I.344); “Senti Paco” (I.349); “Dobbiamo fare presto, ricevuto Paco?” (I.355); “No, scusa Angelo” (II.9). Indeed, “Non sei cattivo Paco” (I.336) is printed across from “Vieni, Paco, ci stiamo inzuppando d’acqua. Vieni, amore, vieni con me” (I.337), and “Dice, la fumi con me, Mirtina” (I.323) and “Aspetta, Luna” (III.134) also contain clearly confined vocatives. Palazzolo’s work with an editorial team at Piemme Edizioni leaves little doubt that the missing commas in vocatives in some areas while most vocatives in the series are, indeed, preceded, followed, or set off by commas was a result of minor editorial oversight.136

“Che c’è da guardare” (I.126) is followed by a period, but “Volete venire nella giungla con me?” follows with a question mark on the next page. These questions, neither uttered aloud, flow through Mirta’s thoughts as she is enveloped by the sights, sounds, and smells of a bar locale, her first experience being surrounded by live humans since her undeath. The differences in tone of these questions, demarcated by the distinct punctuation marks reflecting disparate intonations were they to be spoken, reflect the emotions of the speaker. The former question, without a

136 As the present reader will discover, the editorial care evident in the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna contrasts starkly with the absence of a robust and well-trained editorial team in the publication of the A cena col vampiro series. The results of this absence are blatant in the final form of the first editions of the books in that series. More discussion on this appears in Chapters 4 and 5.

97 written question mark, requires no answer: there is nothing to see here. It also appears to be cloaked in the confusion and panic that Mirta is feeling, which numb her and render her quasi expressionless amidst her sensory overload. In the latter sentence, Mirta is imagining a situation in which she is taunting, flirting with, and enticing a potential sexual partner—the sexual tone suggested by the careful word choice in the previous paragraph (“Accavallare piano piano le mie belle gambe tutte irrigidite” [I.127]). Mirta had been perplexed by the desire in some of the eyes of these young men, because she knows what she is—a walking corpse—yet these men still behold her with carnal desire in their eyes. The raised intonation of the interrogative invitation to join Mirta in the jungle intimates confidence but also (not-so-)innocent playfulness, whereas the first question-mark–less query is inwardly directed and, thus, has no agenda, and needs no accompaniment with regard to intonation.

Claudia Dinale explains that the omission of the question mark in the informal writings of youth (i.e., in correspondence between young people) is common: “[N]on di rado il punto di domanda viene omesso, soprattutto dopo interrogative retoriche o fàtiche” (211), as in the questions above. Dinale underlines that youth, who are “piuttosto sensibili alle prescrizioni scolastiche e grammaticali,” hold punctuation to be exempt from rules that are not those dictated by individual taste; indeed, punctuation marks used superfluously, which are considered “irregolari dal punto di vista sintattico,” more or less intentionally echo the typical flow of spontaneous speech (211).

This is a very strong quality of Palazzolo’s writing: she uses punctuation marks to guide the reader’s interpretation of how inward or outward dialogue would truly sound, despite the tendency for writers—though not wrongfully—to place an interrogation mark at the end of an interrogative sentence and a period after a declarative statement so that there is no ambiguity as to the goal of the utterance. The next example, uttered by Sara, is useful to illustrate this point, as it contains four different punctuation marks—a rarity in Palazzolo’s trilogy—in a perfect balance: “MIRTA, ADESSO BASTA! ZITTISSIMA, HAI CAPITO. MI DEVO ARRABBIARE?” (I.235). The exclamation mark is evidence of exasperation, of course, and the period in the next sentence instead of a question mark demonstrates a pause for an active collection of Sara’s emotions, yet a definite firmness and a lowered tone are present in the enunciation. Meanwhile, the final question mark neatly indicates the challenge in Sara’s utterance, a taunting aggression with a rising tone. Indeed, as any child or parent knows, “Mi devo arrabbiare?” is a rhetorical question that would never have sì as the response from the recipient.

3 Lexicon

This section is by far the heftiest in the discussion and analysis of linguistic and paralinguistic phenomena in Palazzolo’s series, reflecting trends that persist in the contemporary young-adult novel and the hyper-connected world that its audience inhabits. To name only a few such phenomena that Palazzolo includes in the dialogues and thought patterns of her characters, anglicisms, brand names, sexual euphemisms, and curse words permeate the thoughts and the culture of these young people. This section, furthermore, accounts for the wide array of subcodes from which Palazzolo draws for dialogic as well as narratological purposes, which comprise the abovementioned sources but also bleaker ones, like the worlds of drug use and violent crime, due to the presence of drug-abusing youth in the Trilogia; thus, this portion of our discussion also features a section on drug jargon, or droghese.

This analysis, finally, reflects the changes that have befallen the rosa, which, today, includes more explicit descriptions of sexual encounters than in the past,137 not to mention liberal employment of curse words, which were once verboten in such narrations. Additionally, I will review here colloquial terms, anthroponyms, expressions that reflect orality, and lexical items employed by youth, or giovanilese.

3.1 Giovanilese, Colloquialisms, and Aspects of Orality

In the chapter cleverly titled “Forever Young” in I linguaggi giovanili, Lorenzo Coveri, citing the works of Alberto Sobrero and Michele A. Cortelazzo, provides a classification system for the linguaggi giovanili,138 or the languages of youth, citing the main component sources of the latter

137 See pp. 32–33, 38, 40–41, and section 3.3 in this chapter (pp. 111–116). 138 “a) Una base di italiano colloquiale, informale e scherzoso; “b) Uno strato dialettale e regionale; “c) Una quota di forestierismi, pseudo-forestierismi e internazionalismi; “d) Un apporto di linguaggi settoriali o speciali; “e) Un settore proveniente dai mass media; “f) Un apporto di gergalismi di lunga durata; “g) Un’aggiunta di gergalismi di breve durata, di neologismi e di voci effimere” (Coveri 21).

99 as dialettalismi, gergalismi, and forestierismi. These last two are most interesting for the purpose of the study of the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna; the series is practically devoid of dialect expressions,139 while expressions of jargon (the world of drugs is prominent in the book, for instance) share space with the massive presence of foreign words, namely those of English origin. Coveri supports this, saying that “Tra i forestierismi, la fa da padrone, come ci si può attendere, l’inglese, specialmente nell’ambito della tossicodipendenza” (22), and this is evident in the series, where words like “fix, joint, trip, flash, calchi come acido, viaggio” (22) are very easy to locate; flash, for instance, appears 29 times in Strappami il cuore.

While the whys and wherefores of the origins, goals, and uses of the languages of young people are far from the scope of this chapter, Antonelli theorises that,

[a] differenza dei gerghi tradizionali — come il furbesco diffuso già nel ’500, come i gerghi della malavita o gli argots francesi — il linguaggio giovanile non nasce per nascondere il senso di una conversazione agli estranei, né — propriamente — per contrapporsi alla lingua tradizionale […], quanto piuttosto per riconoscersi in un gruppo, che […] può essere anche la propria generazione. Per questo il ricambio dev’essere rapido e incessante. (ISC 33)

The late Palazzolo was in her mid-forties when the Trilogia was published. Despite her age at the time of writing and publishing, the author embodies the mind and spirit of the young when she appropriately uses words, expressions, and styles belonging to the language of youth when she has Mirta express herself and even when she has Mirta invoke old conversations shared with her peers. This trait is important and the effort to sound like youth is appreciated by the adolescent audience of such books, as Moccia’s readers eagerly express on Internet message boards about the author.140 One of these such readers (all of whom are comfortable addressing the author with tu) underlines Moccia’s strength of identifying with readers, keeping their attention, and, of course, speaking in a language that they can understand. In sum, this reader expresses in no uncertain terms, using his or her everyday language, a genuine appreciation of the novels:

139 See section 5.3 in Chapter 2 (pp. 71–81) for a more in-depth discussion on substandard expressions in dialogue. 140 As Matt explains, “[c]olpisce, in primo luogo, il fatto che i ragazzi sembrano davvero considerare Moccia «uno di loro»: lo stile dei messaggi non differisce in nessun modo da quello corrente nella comunicazione in rete […]; evidentemente nel dialogare con lo scrittore preferito quasi nessuno degli adolescenti sente l’esigenza di usare un modo di esprimersi diverso da quello abituale” (Matt 244). Perhaps, however, this last part has more to do with young people’s ignorance with regard to how one addresses an adult via electronic means rather than being proof of their considering him one of them.

100

i tuoi libri sn un invito a leggere, xke nn sn pesanti anzi… tu usi il linguaggio dei ragazzi…. x qst tt leggono i tuoi capolavori!; […] non credo affatto a quelli che hanno definito il tuo stile puramente commerciale… anzi ti stimo come uno dei pochi autori che ha viaggiato con gli occhi di noi adolescenti…; […] mi fai emozionareeeeeeee!!; il libro è molto scorrevole… facile da leggere.. e non impegnativo poichè ha una prosa semplice.. ed è proprio questo che appassiona. (qtd. in Matt 247)

In the pages that follow, in this section on giovanilese, I will demonstrate how Palazzolo’s own writing style and lexical choices, stemming from a variety of sources, combine to form prose that is enticing to young readers. Her writing maintains their attention and interest because of its scorrevolezza—because Mirta and her friends speak just like them.

A major part of the linguaggi giovanili, as much in Italian as in English, is the use of hyperbolic language. In her paper following the publication of the hugely influential Jack Frusciante è uscito dal gruppo (1994), an adolescent romanzo di formazione and author Enrico Brizzi’s first novel (published before he was 20), Carla Marcato indicates that “una delle tendenze della [lingua dei giovani] […] consiste nell’esagerazione riflessa, sul piano semantico, dall’iperbole” (562). Examples of such hyperbolic lexemes include “favoloso, mitico, stupendo, pauroso, pazzesco, anche in senso antifrastico per cui pauroso può valere ‘eccezionale’ sia in senso positivo che negativo” (562). Antonelli points to the lasting influence of the Italian film Fantozzi (1975) by Paolo Villaggio for the following expressions, many of which, evidently, are still in use in Brizzi’s and his contemporaries’ novels even decades later, despite the film’s not dealing with youth per se: “a bestia, da paura, maxi, mega o anche i vari mostruoso, pazzesco, bestiale, allucinante” (ISC 33); da paura (I.291 and I.316), megatrip (I.378), and megagiallo (I.388) are all found in the Trilogia. Vera Gheno explains that “l’uso del prefisso mega(-) […] rientra nella tendenza giovanile all’uso di espressioni iperboliche” (“Socializzare in rete” 59). The tendency to be hyperbolic, she further notes, “è noto come caratterizzante del linguaggio giovanile” (59). Da dio is also notable, appearing five times in Strappami il cuore: “Però, sto da dio” (II.17); “Quando ho appena mangiato, ho una forza da dio” (II.94); “Ma lo fa da dio” (II.154); “Bevevo troppo, ma a quell’età ti reggi da dio” (II.170); “Ci sanno fare da dio” (II.253). Pages 316 and 317 in Non mi uccidere are brimming with hyperbolic expressions, too: “una Yamaha TDM che fila da dio”; “Un’allucinazione da scoppiato”; “Un trip da paura”; “Devo averne calate una cifra, dice. […] Una cifrissima, dico”; “Al suo odore da finimondo”; “a velocità folle.” Finally, “l’ha sclerata di brutto” and “una botta da paura” are featured on I.326.

101

Renzo Ambrogio and Giovanni Casalegno summarise that, “accennando brevemente ai meccanismi specificamente linguistici, si rileva come il linguaggio giovanile si sia costituito retoricamente soprattutto attraverso i procedimenti della metafora, della metonimia e dell’iperbole” (XI). Accordingly, there is liberal use of the superlative in Mirta’s speech and thought, with “Robin è bellissimo” (I.23) as a straightforward example of this. Such expressions unsurprisingly permeate 19-year-old Mirta’s language. Still, these habits of this self-conscious young adult who dares not swear (at least not while she is mortal) may have more to do with the subject of her hyperbole than with her general age-prescribed linguistic habits; the focus of her exaggerations is always the same: Robin. The hyperbole is a result of her obsession: “Robin è bellissimo” (I.23); “quanto è alto! Perché è proprio alto. Un metro e novanta e anche più. Alto e bellissimo” (I.24); pazzeschi and stracciatissimi (I.24); strafigo (I.25); dolcissimo (I.28); “Il figo più strafigo” (I.30); “Lucidissima. Pulitissima. Accessoriatissima. Una macchina straccissima, direbbe Robin” (I.141); “Lui era uno sballo” (I.30). This last sentence is a good example of the few full sentences in the text, while the preceding string of hyperboles (I.141) comprises an imitation of the absent Robin’s speech patterns rather than a sample of Mirta’s own manner of judging or describing phenomena in her environment; still, Mirta’s recountings and, on occasion, her speech are very much indicative of the exaggerated, over-the-top language of the adolescent, of a linguaggio giovanile.

Indeed, Mirta’s metaphors and clichés are also infused with hyperbole (not to mention delusion): “Non mi torcerebbe un capello” (I.28), she says of Robin, yet he is the reason why she is dead as she tells this tale. She makes excuses for him, explaining that “non è stato trattato bene” when he was a child (I.26), and, as the romance trope goes, the heroine believes she can save the hero.141 Ultimately, as we have learnt, the heroine is the one who gets destroyed in the paranormal romance, having to cross over to “the dark side” in order to “save” her mate and be on the same playing field as he is: “Ma adesso ci sono io. E io andrei nel fuoco, per lui” (I.27). When Mirta concedes that “Robin è un ragazzo difficile [though he is a 29-year-old man] ma dolcissimo” and would not dare hurt her, she expresses with confidence that, like she would for him, “andrebbe nel fuoco per me” (I.28–29).

141 See p. 43, notably footnote 61 featuring Bethke and Bethke quoted in Crawford.

102

When she first sees Robin two years before they finally meet,142 Mirta is not noticed by him; still, he flashes a smile in her direction, and Palazzolo perfectly evokes the tender awkwardness and self-consciousness of the teenage experience by having Mirta choke on her Coca-Cola in that instant (I.25):

[Robin] [s]tava con loro e credo che non mi abbia nemmeno vista. Ma nel voltarsi per cercare un tavolo, mi ha sorriso. O forse stava sorridendo a qualcun altro. […] Ma il suo sorriso è finito dentro i miei occhi, e così mi è andata la Coca-Cola per traverso, m’è venuta una tosse che quasi mi strozzavo, un macello pazzesco. E quei cretini dei miei compagni che continuavano a ridere.

This maladroitness, too, however, is a romance trope: the heroine can save the dark hero, of course, but she is also painfully and irredeemably human before she saves him with her purity, good will, and her feminine determination.

Two years after first seeing him at the pub, Mirta encounters Robin again at a party, though she is in a committed relationship this time with a boy named Francesco. She details her impressions of Robin at this party, and her description is rife with hyperbole:

Lui era uno sballo. Tutte le ragazze lo guardavano. Ne avevano anche un po’ paura. E poi è molto più grande di noi. Aveva quasi ventinove anni, all’epoca. Proprio uno grande […]. Il figo più strafigo. E quando si è avvicinato e mi ha chiesto di ballare, mi tremavano talmente le gambe che mi sono appoggiata al pilastro. Ho fatto la figura della più imbranata di tutte quante le imbranate sulla faccia della terra. (I.30)

Here, Mirta is not just “la più imbranata di tutte le imbranate” but “di tutte quante le imbranate,” and she further amplifies this classification of her ineptitude by describing herself as the number one imbranata amongst her kind on the face of the earth. Despite how delightfully ill-at-ease Mirta had felt in those affectionate moments with Robin, it is the poor soul of Francesco, who soon becomes her ex-boyfriend, who later puts on his own adolescent hyperbolic performance when Mirta announces that she is breaking up with him: “Piangeva come una fontana. Diceva che si ammazzava. Poi che ammazzava me. Che mi ammazzava e si ammazzava. Scappava di casa e bisognava andare a cercarlo fin nel più sperduto villaggio del Sud-est asiatico” (I.30).143

In the mysterious happenings of this trilogy, accusations and insecurities abound between the parents of the deceased children; Mirta and her friends; Mirta and Robin later in the series; and

142 See I.29 for the chronological details. 143 As Somigli astutely remarked to me, this is a curious foretelling of what would eventually happen to Mirta, except at the hands of Robin, and she would disappear much closer to home…

103

Mirta and her new lover, Sara. Before Mirta’s death, when Mirta is beginning her courting of Robin and her virtuous habits are changing and degrading, Mirta’s best friend, Miranda, candidly expresses her disapproval of Mirta’s new relationship. In classically teenage terms, Mirta shrugs it off not as genuine concern but as proof that her loved ones simply do not understand her or have never been in her shoes before. Mirta’s teenage angst, firmly ensconced in the 19-year-old’s belief that she is misunderstood, escalates to belittling antagonism and patronising superlatives in Mirta’s failed attempt to validate her situation and choices:

Certe volte ci si mette anche Miranda a farmi una testa così, come se già non bastassero i miei. Dice che Robin è cattivo e basta. Ho cercato di spiegarle che si tratta di una falsa impressione. […] Lei parla così perché non è veramente innamorata. E soprattutto, non è innamorata di Robin. Anche lei ha un ragazzo, Gianluca. Uno qualsiasi. Insignificante. Ed egoista. […] Con me [lui] ci ha perfino provato. Ma questo non l’ho detto a Miranda, altrimenti avrebbe fatto una tragedia. Secondo me, lei si accontenta. Ha paura di mettersi in gioco. Di rischiare. Di rimanere da sola. O di innamorarsi veramente. (I.29)

Mirta is not the only one throwing around hyperbolic accusations, however: her superego tells her that she is out of line in no uncertain terms with the expression essere fuori, which Ambrogio and Casalegno define as “Alterato nelle funzioni psichiche, che sragiona, stordito, in partic. per alcol o droga. (anche con uso iperbolico)” (54). This expression is used with relative frequency in the language of young people, as by Mirta and her superego: “Fuori come un balcone” (I.45); “Sei fuori?” (I.104); “era fuori. Una belva” (I.361).

In the trilogy, but most notably in Non mi uccidere, where the transition from Mirta to Luna is witnessed by the reader, the narrator exhibits a certain hyperconsciousness of language. Indeed, in this first-person–narrated story, the limited omniscient narrator represents not one or two but sometimes three personas, each expressing herself with defined characteristics, tones, and agendas. The original narrator, Mirta, is a devoted student of romance philology and has read extensively the works of Italian as well as foreign authors (i.e., her beloved Witt). She often references books and films, modelling her own experiences on those since she has limited life experience. Despite the circumstances of her death and the months of rebellion before she became immortal, she is naïve and inexperienced—and fully aware of this. Her studious and inquisitive nature is inescapable, notably in the early moments of her transformation from human to zombie, where the experiences of her sheltered former life cannot help her in her coming of age, in her new life in the “real world”: “Mi piacerebbe avere il mio dizionario enciclopedico. Potrei controllare tante cose. Cose che non so. Se le volpi mordono, per esempio” (I.43).

104

Due to Mirta’s careful attention to her own linguistic self-expression but also the views and opinions of her peers, it is understandable that she would judge herself as harshly as she does when engaging in social situations with which she has had minimal or no prior experience. When Mirta is fighting with the more vulgar, primal, animalistic version of herself—the first seeds of Luna—she scolds this alter ego for using curse words, a poor habit to which Mirta would never have consciously yielded. When this alter ego takes over in the form of Luna, Mirta, the docile former version of herself, creeps forth into Luna’s conscience and Luna rejects her, but Mirta’s presence is maintained in the form of tender thoughts and nostalgia. Nonetheless, both sides of the same person are present at various points in the stories, and as long as she is a zombie, Mirta rejects Luna and Luna rejects Mirta, depending on which persona is present or dominant at a given moment.

As mentioned earlier, Mirta frequently evokes Robin in the story and, in these instances, she adopts his verbal mannerisms, such as appending the absolute superlative suffix -issimo at the end of words, regardless of their grammatical category. Mirta, however, being the scholar and avid reader that she is, barely succeeds in harnessing the uninhibitedness that Robin effortlessly exudes as he says these words; when she imitates his style, her recognition of the silliness of the superlatives, or of their being painted with Robin’s brush, bleeds through:

Non credo di avere un posto in cui tornare. Da nessunissima parte al mondo. Al mondissimo, direbbe Robin. (I.50) Poi scappiamo via tutti e Robin litiga con Witt perché io sono suissima e lui deve andarsi a cercare un’altrissima. (I.108)

This is one of Palazzolo’s notable successes: that is, in a book written with a first-person narrator who is the protagonist of the péripéties described, one of Palazzolo’s great successes is her ability not just to have Mirta successfully evoke the idiolects of absent characters that the reader has not yet come to know, but to have readers become so well-acquainted with Mirta that a sudden change of register or tone in the heroine’s style is easily evinced and recognised as belonging to someone else’s paralanguage.

From the hyperbole typical of giovanilese, we move on to observe characteristic colloquial expressions of this adolescent subcode—which still often incorporate the colourings of

105 exaggeration. Exemplary colloquial expressions follow: “insieme alla morosa,” where moroso is typical of the northern varieties of Italian (I.73; Zingarelli, “moroso”);144 Ho mollato (I.102); “Non sono una figa persa? Una strafiga scoppiata?” (I.126); queste stronzette (I.127); una tipa (I.196); “Le madri non capiscono un tubo” (I.305); “Razza di deficiente che sono” (I.338); “Mi sto strippando a morte per crederci” (I.349); “È veramente strippato da paura” (I.349). For l’ha sfangata, an expression appearing on I.106, I.180, and I.181, a synonym for being able to last, or outlast, appears to be offered: “Voglio durare e voglio Robin. […] Non esistono altri desideri. […] Perché devo durare per avere Robin. Sfangarla, direbbe Paco.” Sfangarla, or sfangarsela, is a transitive verb signifying, in its second meaning, “cavarsela, riuscire a sottrarsi a un pericolo, una difficoltà, un lavoro non desiderato e sim.” (Zingarelli, “sfangare”). This meaning in the language of youth is reiterated by Manzoni: “SFANGARE/RSI Da «fango», quindi togliere/rsi di torno, ZINGARARE,145 riuscire in qualcosa” (142). Paco is the character that makes abundant use of this expression, and it comes alive in Paco’s absence in the mouth of Mirta.

Even the speech of toddlers, namely, that of Mirta’s baby brother, Marcolino, is featured in the Trilogia. To imitate the pronunciation of a toddler who is not yet accustomed to fluent communication, Palazzolo removes the alveolar tap from Mirta’s brother’s speech: “«Ciao, Mita» trillò, soffiando un bacino sulla punta delle dita. «Tona pesto»” (I.13). Later in the series, via the thoughts of Piero Fossati, Mirta’s father, in the prologue of the second book, Palazzolo follows up with an update to Marcolino’s speech:

«Vuoi che spenga lo stereo?» gli chiese. «Ma no, papà, mi piace la musica.» Il bambino parla meglio, pensò Piero. Anzi, benissimo. Parla come me. Fino a pochi mesi prima, Marcolino inciampava ancora nella esse, nella ci. Le storpiava in dentali. Non pronunciava la erre. Adesso, ogni difetto era scomparso. (II.6)

144 To avoid having a works-cited list containing myriad listings of individual dictionary entries, all definitions, unless otherwise noted, are taken from the Vocabolario della lingua italiana di Nicola Zingarelli and are cited as above, with a unique works-cited entry under Zingarelli. This reference work by Zingarelli, published by Zanichelli in 2007, is an appropriate source for these books and those studied in Chapters 4 and 5 in this thesis, as this dictionary reflects the general use of the Italian language in the middle years of the 2010s, when all of these books were written and published. 145 “ZINGARARE Verbo alla Ugo Tognazzi di Amici miei. andare senza meta e senza scopo pur di SCHIODARSI da situazioni noiose, limitanti, convenzionali. Come gli zingari, ribellarsi alle imposizioni sociali, ai confini voluti da altri. Marinare, eludere, evadere, evitare” (Manzoni 176).

106

The speech impediment he appeared to have—or, rather, the incorrect pronunciations in his utterances due to his inexperience with speech have disappeared with time and practice, Piero believes. However, he alludes to the possibility that emotional trauma had had a negative effect on the boy’s ability to speak uninhibited and that the improvement was unusually sudden:

Di colpo, il bambino aveva cominciato a pronunciare correttamente le consonanti. Certo, a quattro anni succede. Le difficoltà della prima infanzia cominciano a sfumare. Ma, di colpo? Da un giorno all’altro? Questo povero bambino, pensò nuovamente Piero mentre col bimbo in braccio entrava nella sua cameretta. (II.6)

Indeed, this hint of trauma- or stress-induced difficulty with speech is confirmed in a subsequent exchange between Marcolino and Piero just a few moments later, narratively speaking, in which Marcolino shows Piero a picture that he had drawn that, the boy explains, contains a representation of his dead sister:

«Che bel disegno» disse Piero. E Marcolino s’illuminò. Sullo sfondo di una serie di alberi, campeggiava un pupazzetto dai grandi occhi gialli. Il disegno era molto elaborato. Ed era stato colorato con cura, senza gli spazi bianchi che i bambini tralasciano di riempire per distrazione, o improvvisa indifferenza. (II.8)

While Piero speaks distractedly on the telephone to a contractor tasked with cutting down the cherry trees around their home that remind his wife of their deceased daughter, Marcolino insists on talking about the contents of his drawing. It is in this exchange that his speech capabilities regress:

«Mirta?» disse [Piero]. «Questa è Mirta?» […] «Mirta nel bosco che fa ciao» disse Marcolino. «Angelo, scusami un attimo» disse Piero nel cellulare. «[…] Certo che è Mirta che fa ciao, solo che lei non ha gli occhi gialli. Ce li ha blu.» […] «No» disse Marcolino. «Prima, erano blu.» «Che stai dicendo?» gli disse Piero. «No, scusa Angelo, parlavo col bambino. […]» «Prima erano bu!» strillò Marcolino. «Smettila!» urlò Piero. «Smettila subito, capito? Scusa Angelo, il bambino non sta bene […].» «Pima erano bu! Ma dopo no.» […] «Tu lo sapevi che domani è Pasqua?» gli chiese. «Cando ttava alla finesta.» «Sta’ zitto!» urlò, continuando a massaggiarsi automaticamente la mano. […] Un’esplosione di bassi provenne dal pianterreno [from the bass of the stereo playing Mirta’s old records]. […] «Tua madre è pazza, domani è Pasqua e Mirta non ha gli occhi gialli!» urlò. «Ma cando ttava alla finesta erano dialli» urlò Marcolino. (II.8–9)

Mirta died on February 17, 2002 (I.37). Easter Sunday fell on March 31 in 2002; not even two months had passed since Mirta’s death and her family already lived in a new house but was still

107 struggling with the absence of their loved one. Marcolino’s speech had suffered in Mirta’s passing, had improved slightly afterward, and, finally, regressed in moments of emotional duress, as evidenced in the preceding exchange.146

While Marcolino’s speech varies according to the boy’s emotional state, and Mirta’s sees peaks and valleys of its own in terms of register (and her self-identification as Mirta or Luna), Paco’s idiolect is consistent. Essentially, any time Paco expresses himself in the novel is a rich opportunity to observe the reflection of orality and, also, his evident lack of education, which contrasts with Mirta’s punctilious grammaticality in her speech: “Shhh, fa [Paco]. Fa’ silenzio e passami ’sta canna, è pronta o no? E fattela una tirata, che ti dà un po’ di vita. Non mi piace proprio ’sta faccetta scura che hai” (I.329). His reporting of the conversation that he had had with Robin weeks earlier is remarkably vivid as well:

Mirtina era tutta casa e scuola. O a passeggio con le due rinco. E Robin: lasciamo perdere, Paco, che ci frega. Ma io mi ci ero intignato. […] Gli ho detto, che cazzo vogliamo fare? Ti sei dimenticato? E lui, di che? […] Lui diceva: ma certo, Paco, non è cambiato niente. Col cazzo. Era cambiato tutto. (I.329–330)

Most notably, Paco’s recountings of past events need no flowery language to bring the listener back to the moments in which the original events occurred: the descriptions and direct and indirect discourse contained in his narration are loyal to the registers and emotions of the original exchange, bringing the reader to that original moment in the past.

Interactions of the above type, between Mirta and others, are infrequent in the first book of the trilogy; thus, there is very little dialogue in Non mi uccidere. As a result, examples of orality or even onomatopoeia are rare, which renders Palazzolo’s skilfulness in imitating orality and weaving it unceremoniously into her brand of indirect discourse all the more notable. The following are examples of exclamations and expressions from Mirta’s and her friends’ speech: zac (I.31); Sciò (I.57); “Ma va’!” (I.64); Bip (I.73); “No, per carità, no!” (I.187); Già (I.329); Capirai! (II.3); Dài, Beh, and Mah (III.232).

A friendly exchange between Luna and her good friend, the sopramorto Max, contains the usual traits of oral exchanges—dialogue tags, most obviously—but it also displays a perfect blending

146 It is curious to note that this insinuation that Mirta the sopramorto had been seen by the little boy on one of her short visits to the house is never verified at any point in the series.

108 of speakers in a single paragraph. Normally, even in the absence of punctuation marks delineating who, exactly, is speaking, Palazzolo places a new speaker on a different line in the text; however, the single paragraph for several conversational pieces between the two members seems to mimic the easy flow, the quickness of the exchange, and, possibly, the high degree of comfort between Luna and Max:147

Come va con Sara, ha chiesto. È ancora amour fou? Direi di sì, ho detto. E niente tentazioni? ha mormorato. Ridacchiando. Ho riso anch’io. Pare di no, ho detto, finora almeno. Lo credo bene! ha sbuffato lui. Con la penuria di maschi alfa che c’è in giro! Tieniti stretta Sara, bambina. […] Smetti che divento gelosa! ho detto. Fammi le coccole, piuttosto. Ma certo, piccola Luna, ha detto. Sei sempre la mia bambina. (III.233)

This emotional, but not romantic, intimacy between the two (Max is a gay man, while Luna, by this point in the novel, is romantically involved with a woman, her mentor, Sara) is reflected in their physical demeanour at the beginning of the conversation as well: “E anch’io, ha detto Max. Poggiandomi la testa sulla spalla. Abbracciandomi stretta” (III.233).

3.2 Droghese

The plot to the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna would not exist were it not for the drug-addled manipulation of Mirta’s older lover, Robin. Consequently, the language of drugs, or droghese, permeates the novel. From the flash of a high to the more generic act of farsi, to refer to taking drugs (also drogarsi), and the more literal bucarsi, which denotes the poke of a heroin- containing hypodermic needle, the trilogy covers the entire gamut of drug jargon. The verbs bucarsi, farsi, and strippare fulfill all of the speaker’s needs in describing the taking of drugs and the experience of the subsequent high:

Gli credevo, quando mi diceva che non mi avrebbe lasciata più. Ma non gli credevo quando diceva che non si sarebbe bucato più. (I.33) È stata la Susy la prima a dirmi che Robin si faceva. (I.51)148

Meanwhile, the nouns and adjectives describing the drugs themselves and the qualities of the person under the influence of them vary in their connotations, some more colourful and others more literal. The past participle, fatto, signifies “Alterato per droga o alcol, sconvolto, fuso”

147 This conversation can be contrasted with the one between Mirta and Mario; see pp. 68–69. 148 For this pronominal use, see “farsi” in Zingarelli.

109

(Ambrogio and Casalegno 167). In the second example, below, fatto is intensified by Mirta with the expression come una pigna, which is only one of many similar expressions using plants or animals to indicate an individual’s degree of intoxication, like fatto come una pera / una zucchina / un cocomero / un cavallo (Ambrogio and Casalegno 168): “Ma io sono morta. E Paco fatto” (I.317) and “Fatto come una pigna” (I.318).

Because heroin is the drug of choice and the plot-turning toxin of the first book, lexemes related to this drug appear frequently, one of which is limone (I.34): “sm. Dose di eroina” (Manzoni 258). Though limonata is not used by Mirta or her friends in the series, limone is derived from the Italian calque limonata via the English “lemonade,” Manzoni says: “Limonata […], sf. Nel gergo dei tossicodipendenti, eroina di qualità scadente; traduzione dell’inglese lemonade” (257– 258). Meanwhile, “un eterno crepuscolo”—an eternal sunset, with no hope for respite in the night’s eventual fall—refers to the period in which the individual “comes down” from or becomes progressively more sober after a high or a period of drug-induced intoxication. Mirta reads in Paco “la stanchezza infinita del dopo trip. Quella che ti fa vivere in un eterno crepuscolo in cui dici sempre che devi partire, partire, e non parti mai. […] La stanchezza infinita degli scoppiati” (I.332). If a period long enough between crepuscoli passes before a drug user gets another “fix,” the drug addict will experience withdrawal; Mirta is accused of this in Non mi uccidere, but what her accuser—also a drug user—does not correctly understand is that Mirta is suffering from withdrawal caused by not consuming flesh rather than drug withdrawal. Still, she is a rota:

Tiè, Lunè, fatti una pippata che ce ne andiamo in paradiso! No, dico, non ne prendo. Che? dice. Ma dai! Guarda che si vede a un miglio che stai a rota. Una fottuta tossica a rota. Manco camminare sai!149 (I.148)

Ambrogio and Casalegno define stare a rota in the following way, with a literary example to support the definition:

Rota (var. ruota), sf. Crisi di astinenza dalla droga (voce gergale di provenienza romanesca). – In partic. in espressioni quali Essere, stare a rota, fare la rota, levarsi dalla rota, ecc. (370)

149 She can barely walk because her body is decaying from lack of feeding on human flesh. This man with whom she is interacting soon becomes her first victim.

110

Non morirà. Sopravviverà. Anche i tossici sopravvivono senza roba. Ti fai la rota, soffri come una bestia, pensi che non ce la farai mai, ma alla fine ce la fai e sei pulito. (Ammaniti qtd. in Ambrogio and Casalegno 370)150

Antonelli explains that words belonging to the jargon of drugs undergo semantic shifts diachronically; thus, many of the lexemes employed by Mirta, both in dialogue and in narration, may no longer mean the same today (or 10 years ago) as they did when they first entered droghese’s lexicon: “intrippato ‘in preda agli effetti della droga’, flash ‘violenta sensazione provocata dagli stupefacenti’, sballo ‘momento immediatamente successivo all’iniezione della droga’ oggi hanno un valore traslato, connotato di solito positivamente, che ben poco ha che vedere con quello originario” (ISC 34). Ambrogio and Casalegno reiterate this with their examples for specific terms employed in contemporary fiction; for instance, strippare: “Strippare, intr. anche con la particella pronom. Sballare, andare fuori di testa per avere assunto droga, deriv. da trip (v.) […]” (448). As they explain, strippare comes from the English noun “trip,” which is used in a drug-related context as well; in Italian, however, trip is an invariable noun and the verb is not trippare, but strippare: “Trip, sm. invar. Allucinazione continuata prodotta da sostanze stupefacenti, in partic. LSD; voce inglese, propriamente ‘viaggio’” (473).

Ambrogio and Casalegno cite Marisa Rusconi and Guido Blumir’s1976 La droga e il sistema as a source for trip,151 and they offer revelatory examples of the word’s usage in context by authors such as Giulio Milani152 and Stefano Massaron:153

Poi ci fu l’esperienza politica, […] è stata veramente come un trip di acido che è durato un tempo piuttosto lungo. (Rusconi and Blumir qtd. in Ambrogio and Casalegno 473) «Aaah, che bèlo rilazaaarse…» Si risollevò di scatto: «E poi te strippi! Oooh, como estò strippaaato…» (Milani qtd. in Ambrogio and Casalegno 448) Alla fine ho strippato, prima o poi doveva succedere, mi sono calato troppa roba e alla fine ho strippato di brutto. (Massaron qtd. in Ambrogio and Casalegno 448)

150 Niccolò Ammaniti, Ti prendo e ti porto via (Milan: Mondadori, 1999) 35. 151 La droga e il sistema. Cento drogati raccontano (Milan: Feltrinelli, 1976). 152 “Postcard” in Coda II, a collection of short stories written by authors who were under 25 at the time of publishing: “Postcard” in Coda II, ed. Andrea Demarchi (Ancona: Transeuropa, 1997) 230. 153 Graffiti (Rome: Adnkronos, 1998) 61.

111

Mirta, despite her waning innocence, is up to date with terms like these, comfortably tossing around expressions relating to drugs in her narrations, such as una canna, il dopo trip, scoppiati,154 un’overdose (II.3), and rollare, to name only a few:

Ne versa un po’ [di cocaina] sul palmo della mano. La raccoglie con la punta del rotolino. Poi lo punta. E tira. Dice, un tiramisù da favola.155 Tiè, Lunè, fatti una pippata che ce ne andiamo in paradiso!156 (I.148) Non voglio pensarci, adesso che forse riuscirò a convincere Paco. Che sta giocando. Sta strippando. (I.321) Lui rolla lentamente la sua canna. (I.348)

Evidently, drug intoxication is part of Mirta’s life, and, tragically, the reason for her death. Palazzolo appropriately has Mirta fluent in the use of drug nomenclature; perversely, in this way, the protagonist regains control over this aspect of her antemortem existence by being able to “talk the talk” in her postmortem encounters with drug users and in her memories.

3.3 Sex

Like in other undead romances featuring vampires (or flesh-eaters), oftentimes, the acts of drinking a victim’s blood, consuming a victim’s flesh, and penetrating the victim with one’s teeth are equated with coitus and consummation, or, more simply and somewhat more romantically, with sensual romance and love-making. Bailie explains:

Just as in the romance genre passion and the sexual act define the couple’s commitment and love for each other, in the paranormal romance the sexual act between the vampire hero and heroine symbolizes a connection between them that takes place not only on a physical level but equally on an emotional and spiritual level. In referring to the horror genre, Daniel Farson acknowledges that “vampire superstition is riddled with sexuality; indeed it is dependent on it, with all the sucking, the flowing of blood and the love-biting.” (189)

Moreover, “the sexual act, in these horror novels,” she explains, “is usually a demonstration of power and control manifested in the act of bringing the victim into the vampire’s depraved existence or in outright killing the victim. It is also coded in the act of taking blood[,] in the penetration of the vampire’s teeth without actual intercourse taking place” (Bailie 145; emphasis

154 “Scoppiato (part. pass. di scoppiare), agg. […] Sostant. Tossicodipendente (come insulto)” (Ambrogio and Casalegno 400). 155 “Tiramisù, sm. invar. Qualsiasi sostanza eccitante” (Ambrogio and Casalegno 467). 156 “Pippata, sf. Sniffata [itself an Anglicism, from “to sniff”; see Ambrogio and Casalegno 425] di cocaina” (Ambrogio and Casalegno 332).

112 added). A prominent analogous example in Mirta-Luna is in the following expression of Mirta’s yearning for company and for intimacy:

E vorrei […] [t]rovare qualcuno che incroci la mia strada. Tornare con qualcuno, mano nella mano. Magari, baciarlo. Magari, mangiarlo. (I.243–244)

There is a second type of penetration, however, in this story, without even involving the biting and consumption of flesh; it is a form of penetration that precipitates the unfolding of events and is still a metaphor for sexual penetration and heteronormative power dynamics: the injecting of a heroin-containing syringe by murderous Robin into Mirta’s innocent virgin skin. Indeed, what dramatises this act is the fact that the young Mirta is so frightened of syringes that, when she shoots up with Robin, her boyfriend must complete the injection for her, thereby exercising dominion over her and controlling her experience in a twofold manner as he penetrates with the needle and injects the toxic substance.157

There are no euphemisms used, really, to refer to sex or to sexual organs in Palazzolo’s work, unlike the conventions employed by writers of the Harmony series, who use metonymy (virilità and femminilità, for instance) and metaphor (nido and cuore della femminilità, for example) to denote the reproductive organs (Alfieri 213). Still, this does not mean that sex is absent from the series. Only the vaguest of expressions and pronouns are employed in the narration and in speech by Mirta and her comrades to allude to sexual organs and acts. For instance, the direct object pronoun la refers to the female genital area, while lo refers to the male genital area: “Fa scivolare una mano tra le mie cosce. Me la stringe. Me l’accarezza” (I.358). In an earlier scene, lo is used by mortal Paco to refer to his genitals in a vulgar, unsettling scene wherein he insists that immortal Mirta perform fellatio on him:

Vedi, Mirtina, ci dovevo stare io al posto di Robin, fin da principio. […] E adesso sei morta, ma sei qui. Lui [Robin] è sottoterra, ma tu sei qui. E allora, me lo prendi in bocca, Mirtina? Lo prendi in bocca a Paco? Hai una bocca così bella. Una bocca da fata. Fa’ finta che sia di Robin, se vuoi. Inventati quello che vuoi. Ma, me lo prendi in bocca, Mirtina? (I.349)

157 See pp. 42 and 44 for more on Mirta’s fear of injections.

113

Context guides the meaning of the third-person singular direct-object pronoun, of course, and it is clear that, in the next example, Mirta is not referring to the male sex organ, but, rather, to sexual intercourse:

E appena ci incontriamo, cominciamo a ridere e ci strappiamo di dosso questi vestiti ridicoli e. I morti lo fanno? E come lo fanno? (I.51)

Other descriptions are significantly more explicit. This, I believe, confirms that the trilogy could not be considered as exclusively part of the teen-lit subgenre of horror or romance, as it contains themes that would better suit a more mature chick-lit or, according to the discretion of the reader, young-adult audience. In the next excerpt, Paco provides a desperate and tremendously explicit explanation to Mirta of how he has longed for her:

Cristo, Mirtina, dice lui. Non sai quante volte me lo sono immaginato. Che tu venivi a casa mia, con una scusa. Che mi abbassavi la lampo, così. Non sai quante seghe mi ci sono fatto sopra.158 Che cosa t’ho fatto, durante quelle seghe. Sono anni che mi faccio le seghe su di te, Mirtina. (I.350)

With regard to the act in play, the description is matter-of-fact and no euphemisms are offered, unlike in most romance novels, where censorship and euphemism are conventional (and, perhaps, appreciated and expected by readers):

Lo sfioro con le labbra. Quest’odore [di vivente]. Così forte. E di colpo ho paura. Di mordere. Affondare i denti. E penso, come fa a non aver paura? Ma forse, ha paura. Mi smuore sotto le labbra. Non appena lo tocco. Alzo il viso verso di lui. E la sua mano mi preme sul collo. Non smettere! dice, spingendomi giù. Succhialo, amore, che torna duro. Per carità, non smettere, Mirtina. (I.350)

Matt, in his (at times) scathing article about Moccia’s romance novels, insists that the way in which Moccia has his fictional characters talk or think about sexual activity is outdated and unrealistic;159 in contrast, Palazzolo’s approach is entirely appropriate and realistic in a book for young adults. She strays from any romance norm of modesty or censorship when describing fellatio or intercourse, but it must also be acknowledged that, in the abovementioned excerpts

158 In Ambrogio and Casalegno (405): “Sega, sf. Masturbazione maschile […]; è voce attestata fin dal XIX sec.: cfr. DLLA,” or Dizionario Letterario del Lessico Amoroso, eds. Walter Boggione and Giovanni Casalegno (Turin: UTET, 2000). It is followed by this excerpt from Porci con le ali (7) by Marco Lombardo Radice and Lidia Ravera (Rome: Savelli, 1976): “Non si può usare l’ultima scopata fatta per più di cinque seghe, è quasi immorale. Cominci quasi a dubitare di averla fatta veramente, quella scopata” (qtd. in Ambrogio and Casalegno 405). 159 “È difficile immaginare che un ragazzotto intento a sbirciare le parti intime della fidanzata usi un’espressione al sapore rétro come «fiore proibito»” (Matt 254).

114 from Palazzolo, the situations described comprise an unwilling partner (Mirta) and an intoxicated man (Paco); there is nothing romantic about their circumstances at all, and “making love” does not enter the equation. In fact, as Matt explains, an “extreme” sexual situation requires vulgar terminology: “Se si vuole descrivere una scena di sesso estremo bisogna poi avere il coraggio di usare un linguaggio coerente” (254–255), something that Moccia does not do in a scene wherein characters are role-playing as part of the lead-up to coitus.

Indeed, for a scene involving aggressive or intense sexual foreplay, Matt declares that only two options to invite intercourse are possible: scopami o chiavami (255).160 Of the two, only scopare appears in the Trilogia,161 alongside fottere, both in the narration as well as in dialogue; however, the second term is used almost exclusively as an equivalent to the very explicit English “to screw or fuck someone over” rather than as a synonym for scopare:

Scopavamo senza capirci niente. Confondendo i nomi. Cristo, Mirta, piglialo in bocca e basta! Succhiamelo, amore, così. Che bocca hai. La mia Mirtina. (I.350)

Era così che ti scopava? dirà. Oppure. Scopami come ti scopava lui, dirà. Che cosa si prova a farsi fottere da un benandante, tesoro? (II.243)

Sai che ha detto Vanna una volta? Che come l’ha scopata Sara, nessun maschietto al mondo. (III.233)

A final lexical variant, entrare, presents itself to refer objectively and literally to the act of penetration: “Mentre Robin entrava con quanta cautela. Quanta attenzione, nel mio corpo. È successo qui, la prima volta” (I.213).

“La [mia] prima volta,” as in “La mia prima volta è questo cartello giallo” (I.213), is the phrase used to refer to Mirta’s first time having intercourse with Robin; it was also her first time ever having sexual intercourse, as confirmed on I.321,162 where Mirta is imagining how Paco, who had taken her to the spot where she lost her virginity to Robin, would have possibly known about this secret location. This memory is invoked halfway through the first book, and it is a rare sweet

160 According to Matt, the first is most likely to be uttered by someone from Rome, as Moccia’s characters are (yet they avoid pronouncing such a word); the second, by anyone from the rest of the peninsula (255). 161 Though born in Catania, Palazzolo spent her adult life, as of the age of 18, in Rome, where she passed away (Terminelli, Tanto ormai…121). 162 Even without this confirmation, Robin’s 10-year seniority over Mirta and his cautela insinuate that the event was Mirta’s first time having intercourse.

115 instance of nostalgia in a series filled with carnage and violent sex scenes; the sweetness and innocence of it reflect the type of relationship shared by the couple as well. Though unbalanced due to their age difference and diverse life experiences, there appears to have been genuine love and caring between Robin and Mirta. Palazzolo makes manifest this dynamic in her narrative description of Mirta’s intimate memories with Robin, as in the nostalgic excerpt from I.213.

The coarse ways in which sex is linguistically depicted elsewhere in the novel reflect the intensity and aggression—physical or emotional, or both—of the situations in which the partners find themselves. Typically, the pairing is emotionally or physically unbalanced, and the circumstances are rife with jealousy, guilt, and mistrust, as in the scenes below featuring Sara, Mirta-Luna’s undead mentor and romantic and sexual partner in the second and third books of the trilogy. Sara always remembers Mirta’s first love, and the reason why Mirta is undead at all, and she invidiously brings up Robin even during intercourse:

E vedo gli occhi di Sara assottigliarsi. Balenare tra le ciglia. E so già che stanotte, nel sottotetto. Nel regno dei morti. Era così che ti scopava? dirà. (II.243).

Non ce la faccio più, tesoro. No, non dire una parola. Fottimi, Luna! (II.252)

Despite this variant romantic dynamic, that is, in this lesbian pairing rather than the heterosexual ones described prior, very little changes in the ways that Palazzolo describes Mirta-Luna’s intimate moments; indeed, these moments are equally violent and aggressive, though with a smattering of quasi-tender moments as well, as in the excerpt below:

Dimmelo, Mirta, sussurra lei. E io glielo dico. Piano. All’orecchio. […] Mentre il suo corpo si solleva. Qualcosa cade tintinnando sul pavimento di pietra. E le sue mani mi scivolano addosso. Morbide. Calde. Allargando i lembi lacerati del sari. Indurendosi contro il mio corpo. Sollevandolo contro il suo. Manipolandolo bruscamente. (III.168)

Perhaps it would not be a proper undead-romance novel without a scene featuring the grotesque sexualisation of a violent, homicidal moment.163 On I.228, the reader witnesses a brutal and vicious murder by the hands of newborn zombie Mirta-Luna. Mirta-Luna’s killings are not those of vampiric noblemen concerned about their appearance or delicate about the carnage they leave behind, such as may appear in the works of Rice. This is not the murderous work of a professional; this is the work of a newborn zombie overcome by the scents and flavours of “latte

163 See Bailie 145.

116 e miele” (I.149)—the delicious and overwhelming scent of human flesh—and overcome by her primitive nature, of which she is still a complete stranger, until her nature overtakes her in an all- consuming, sensual, and darkly sexual way:

Affondo i denti da dietro, nel collo. Lui grida, e grida ancora. […] Sono piantata a cavalcioni sulla sua schiena. I polsi stretti nella mia mano. L’altra gliela tengo intorno al collo. Dall’esterno tutto questo deve apparire come una copula infernale. Una copula da incubo. Poi affondo e affondo sul mare di latte e miele, e non penso più niente. (I.149) 3.4 Vulgar Terms, Curse Words, and Euphemisms

Eventually, as Mirta (d)evolves in her undead state and fully embraces her new identity as Luna, she regards the living with progressively decreasing respect, dignity, and compassion. Palazzolo, however, is clever in her portrayal of this ex-mortal as a merciless killer who regards humans as merely a food source, all while allowing Luna to have moments of weakness that permit Mirta to peek through and acknowledge her sentimentality for her former mortal life. Her despicable and reckless acts toward humans are often committed out of envy, especially at the beginning of Mirta’s transition, when Mirta believes herself to be the only undead individual in the world. Indeed, much later in the first novel, Mirta admits to this jealousy in plain words:

Dicevano che la vita è dolore, noia e vuoto. Che la vita non vale un soldo, è solo un incubo passeggero sul far dell’alba. E mentre dicono questo brindano e ballano e si avvinghiano. Come alla villa, quella notte. Quando ho caricato mille volte il fucile. Sparando su di loro che affondavano felici nel loro lezzo. Eccitati ed eleganti. Con quella luce azzurrata nello sguardo che è la luce del futuro, anche se per loro stava sgocciolando via, mentre toglievo la sicura dal fucile. La luce su cui ho fatto fuoco. Il fuoco che adesso Paco sta accendendo. Con quella luce nello sguardo. Anche lui. La luce su cui ho sparato. Per invidia dei viventi. (I.357)

The final phrase is powerful in how it is separated from the previous paragraph’s description. Furthermore, to give the sentiment space and for the reader to feel the desolation felt by Mirta, the phrase is followed by a blank line before the very next paragraph.

Notably, in Mirta’s anger and in her private envy, she uses the term viventi and its singular counterpart throughout her undead existence with the semantic weight of a derogatory term, especially in this scene where humans are un–self-consciously indulging in an experience that satisfies all of their senses, which Mirta abruptly brings to an end with her rage-filled shooting spree:

E loro cadono gli uni sugli altri. […] Sotto i colpi potenti di questo fucile che continua a non mancare un colpo, a non incepparsi, a mettercela tutta per non farmi fare cattiva figura. Davanti a

117

nessuno di questi sozzi viventi che si ingozzano di tartine e champagne, mentre c’è gente che muore per la strada. (I.245–246)

The final sentence clarifies Mirta-Luna’s wrath and disgust. In her view, no one should be enjoying life, especially with such gluttony, while “c’è gente che muore per la strada.” Her description is impersonal and generic and might even strike one as appropriately righteous, but the reader discovers that Mirta is speaking self-referentially and selfishly, referring to herself and her vain search for Robin: “[…] mentre c’è gente che muore per la strada. Sull’orlo di una discarica. Gente la cui tomba è intatta malgrado qualcuno, qualcuno che li ama, continui a battere su quella tomba” (I.246).

In the early stages of Mirta’s regression into Luna—or in the early stages of Mirta’s progression out of naïveté and her sheltered world, one might say—Mirta is self-conscious and ashamed of her accidental use of curse words. Though she is alone for much of the first novel, whether she simply thinks or actually utters blasphemous expressions or expletives,164 Mirta surprises herself while in conversation with her superego and scolds the latter—which she recognises as a part of herself—or she scolds herself for her own perceived lack of respect or decorum:

Non è che le cose migliorano se mi tremano le mani. Meglio agitata che addormentata, perdio! Non dire queste parole! Io non le dico! Mi fanno schifo certe espressioni. Sono irrispettose. Peggio delle parolacce. (I.66)

Later, her superego taunts her in an evocative exchange regarding Mirta’s feelings of self-pity and remorse in that specific moment. The darker side of Mirta, Luna, begs to be acknowledged:

Robin è morto. Lui sì, sul serio. Povera povera povera Mirtina. Mirta pallina del suo papà, apri gli occhi e lui è già qua. Smettila, Mirta! Adesso basta! Tìrati su e comincia ad aprire le porte, perdio! Non farmi dire parolacce! Perdio, perdio, perdio! Le odio, queste parole. Le odio! Ti odio! Chi. Chi odi? Te! Me? Me, sì. Basta! Voglio morire! (I.68)

164 Due to the lack of punctuation or speech tags indicating when oral expression is occurring, it is unclear which of these—thinking or speaking—take place, and when, in Non mi uccidere. It is possible but unconfirmed that, in the excerpt from I.66 and anywhere else Mirta converses with her superego, the italicised portions expressed by her superego are thoughts while the Roman lettering is used for expressions uttered aloud by Mirta. See section 2 in this chapter, on punctuation, orthography, and formatting, for more (pp. 92–97).

118

Dozens of new events after this initial acknowledgment of the dark side of Mirta, Luna is progressing from flimsy translucence, through which Mirta could still be evinced, to a more opaque, solid, confident, permanent shape. Nonetheless, Mirta-Luna continues to insist that she possesses traits of innocence, of virginity, of abhorrence for anything threatening to dispel her virtue:

[Mario] [s]i sta eccitando. Si sta ingolfando nell’avventura della sua vita. Con una sconosciuta da sballo che non solo l’ha degnato di ascolto, ma che lo sta addirittura portando in un posto misterioso come lei. Un posto in cui lui pensa di poterle fare tutte le porcherie che vuole. Perché questa ci sta. Questa la dà a tutti. Io non sono così. Non penso così. Ho orrore delle parolacce, delle volgarità, della crudeltà. Solo certe volte divento così. Quando sono piena di rabbia. O di paura. (I.142–143)

Even without Mirta’s ability, as an animate being interacting with Mario and also as a quasi- omniscient narrator, to know Mario’s thoughts, Palazzolo manages to elucidate traits of Mario’s values and his personality through Mirta’s use of his imagined indirect discourse. Seamlessly, in the absence of punctuation or speech or thought tags to make absolutely clear who is thinking what, Palazzolo brings to life through Mirta’s uncanny senses—and rational fears—the imagined thought processes of those in her vicinity, as demonstrated in “Questa la dà a tutti” above, which is what Mirta imagines Mario to be thinking.

In this novel, light and dark, Mirta and Luna, coexist in the same person; in the company of Mario Cerruti, the straccio she met in the bar, Mirta has acknowledged, though perhaps not yet fully accepted, her growing dark side: “Schifoso vivente di merda! e non me ne frega niente di dire parolacce. Perché adesso mi sto incazzando. Di brutto” (I.146). There are individuals that bring out the dark and the naughty in her, like this Mario, but her very undead nature remains and thrives all by itself until she receives the tutelage of her undead mentor, Sara, who demonstrates that one can be undead and also be kind while coexisting with (but still trying to pass unnoticed by) mortal humans.

Apart from these metalinguistic reactions, parolacce and bestemmie regularly appear in thoughts, monologues (or soliloquies), and dialogues: diamine (I.45); dannazione (I.63); incavolata (I.93); froci (I.108); bastardo (II.4); “Cazzo cazzo cazzo” (II.97); “Stronzo stronzo stronzo” (III.233). The reader will also observe the following excerpts:

E poi devo far piano. Piano un corno! (I.64)

119

Non me ne frega proprio niente. (I.229) Mentre io mi ero fatta un culo così per imparare a vivere da sola. (II.250) Porca vacca, hanno trovato Paco. (III.60) Fanculo a questi bastardi, dice. (III.206) Beh, se mente, avrà le sue ragioni. Ragioni del cazzo! ha detto Max. Deciso. (III.232) [Gatto Machesi] sta insegnando anche a me tutto questo. Cioè. Come passare inosservati. Come camuffarsi da vivente. Come fottere i benandanti. E sfangarla alla grande, in questo mondo di merda. (III.236) Cristo, i miei pantaloni nuovi! (III.240) Testa di cazzo! Prova soltanto ad avvicinarti a lui! Che crepi, bastardo assassino che mi hai fatto tutto questo! Che sia dannato. Per sempre. Fino alla fine del tempo. Scappa! (III.370)

While fottere can have the sexual connotations described earlier,165 it also, as we have seen, possesses metaphorical connotations of being caught in an inescapable misfortune, as in “Cazzo, se prendono Paco, io sono fottuta” (III.48); it is also freely used as a colourful pejorative modifier:

Guarda che si vede a un miglio che stai a rota.166 Una fottuta tossica a rota. (I.148) Testa di cazzo, dice Mikel. Rinco tra i rinco. Fottuta testa di merda, dice. Come se recitasse una litania. Ripetendo all’infinito gli insulti. (III.49)

Rinco in the second excerpt, first used on I.82, is an invariable adjective, participle, and noun that is short for rincoglionito (Ambrogio and Casalegno 366): “«Quando sono arrivata a casa dormiva alla grande, non ha capito niente.» «Beata te che c’hai l’uomo rinco»” (Campo qtd. in Ambrogio and Casalegno 366).167 Gheno explains that, in the writing of young people, “È generalizzato anche l’uso di troncare le parole, o meglio, ‘spogliarle’ delle sillabe non strettamente necessarie alla loro comprensione” in writings on social media, and she provides the concrete example of raga for “ragazzi” (“Socializzare in rete” 87). This convention, apparently, is applicable to fictionalised speech as well.

165 See p. 114. 166 See pp. 110–111 for more on a rota. 167 Rossana Campo, Mai sentita così bene (Milan: Feltrinelli, 1995) 120.

120

While cazzata is a fairly common informal term to describe something as silly or stupid, my research fell short when I attempted to discover the contextual meaning behind the vague recurrent phrase fare la cazzata, with the definite article:168

[Robin] [e]ra andato su a Milano per contrattare una tela. Sono in panico quando parte. Non solo per le altre ragazze. Ho paura che faccia la cazzata. Ho avuto paura da subito. Da quando lui mi ha detto tutto, dopo qualche settimana che stavamo insieme. Anche se lo sapevo già. Le voci al mio paese fanno presto a girare. (I.28) Per lui la domenica è sempre stata una brutta giornata. Quando l’ho capito ho cominciato a diradare i miei ritorni a casa nel fine settimana. Ho sempre avuto paura che prima o poi avrebbe fatto la cazzata. E l’avrebbe fatta di domenica. (I.50)

The use of the definite article seems to indicate that Mirta is referring to an understood co- referent of which she and Robin had a mutual comprehension. Since they later committed suicide together, or so it appeared, perhaps Mirta knew that Robin’s addiction was so all-consuming and insufferable as to possibly lead Robin to overdose, especially on a bad day, like his Sundays. Thus, la cazzata could be what she viewed as the “idiotic” act of Robin’s taking of his own life.

3.5 Brand Names

The present reader can pick up any teen-lit or chick-lit novel, regardless of the specific overarching genre, in English or Italian, and flip to a random page to easily locate a brand name. Moccia, for instance, is shameless in the way he sprays pages with brand names for colour, though his goal is to make his novels approachable, to make them resemble the billboard- covered world that his readers inhabit—or, in the case of brand names that readers could only dream to be able to afford, the world his readers wish to inhabit: “[L]’attenzione alle merci è un fatto tutt’altro che episodico per [Moccia], il quale infatti infarcisce i suoi romanzi di passaggi molto simili a spot pubblicitari, soprattutto relativi a capi di vestiario” (Matt 248). A lengthy excerpt from Moccia’s Ho voglia di te (2006) follows Matt’s explanation in his study (248– 249),169 demonstrating how vital these brand names are to validating the consumeristic habits of many of his characters.

168 Google provided 15 800 of the definite, and 65 500 with the indefinite (in May 2016). 169 The excerpt, which includes the following two passages from two separate pages in Moccia’s novel, demonstrates how it is not a mere sprinkling of brand names here and there that Moccia employs, but, rather, a veritable flood of names inundates entire paragraphs: “[C]omincio a tirare fuori la roba. Maglioni, giubbotti. Un track jacket Abercrombie. Jeans scoloriti, marca Junya. Una felpa color sabbia Vintage 55. Camicie ben piegate Brooks Brothers” (Moccia 31) and “Continuo a scorrere i vestiti. C’è di tutto: top di Cavalli e Costume National,

121

Meanwhile, it is important to remember that Moccia did not re-invent the wheel: Giancarlo Lombardi reminds us that “Italian Gen Xers”—which include all of the authors examined in this thesis170—“were born and raised during a period of social and political unrest: the period spanning from 1969 to 1985 has long been considered as the darkest time in the history of the Italian republic because of the continuous threat posed by right[-] and left-wing political terrorism” (236).171 He suggests that coming of age in such circumstances resulted in that generation’s wholesale rejection of politics and “all things political”; they preferred, instead, to seek “shelter in the apparent solace provided by pop culture”—in contrast with their parents’ generation, “who participated en masse in the youth revolts of 1968 and 1977” (236).

Palazzolo, a borderline Gen-Xer herself, is receptive to the solace offered by pop culture (though she definitely lacks the unbridled zeal of Moccia)172 and to the style of her predecessors in the Cannibali and their contemporaries, the prose of whom drips with gratuitous references to brands and consumer culture;173 she is not immune to this style, nor should she have to be.174 The inclusion of brand names for clothing, household items, automobiles, and other miscellaneous paraphernalia gives the novels cultural immediacy or, when necessary, adds a seductive sense of exoticism to the text. These trends, shared with other writers of the same generation and with similar literary leanings, are exemplified at their height in the Cannibali. These writers published in a period characterised by a “visible and yet contradictorily sarcastic fascination shared by

una longuette Jil Sander, gonne Haute, due borse D&G, una maglia chiara in cachemire di Alexander McQueen, un soprabito Moschino in jeans, una divertente giacca a quadri di Vivienne Westwood, una blusa Miu Miu, jeans Miss Sixty Luxury…” (Moccia 173). 170 The cut-off years for Generation X vary according to different economists and sociologists. According to Stephey (see footnote 170 below), Palazzolo, who was born in 1961, is just four years shy of the beginning of Generation X. For our purposes, this discrepancy is not enough to be meaningful. While Dooley/Intermite’s and De Nicolo’s birth years are not of public record at this time (nor did I feel it appropriate to ask them what they were), we can confirm that Folgorata/Montanari was, like Palazzolo, born in 1961. Also, in De Nicolo’s interview with Rizzo, De Nicolo mentions that she frequented pubs in Bari in the ’90s, so we can assume that she was born in the early’80s. 171 Stephey explains in a TIME article about the “ignored generation” that Gen-Xers are “roughly defined as anyone born between 1965 and 1980.” 172 Moccia is also a borderline Gen-Xer, born in 1963. 173 See Lucamante and below. 174 See the examples from I.76–77 on p. 125 for evidence of brand-soaked pages even in Palazzolo.

122 many Italian authors with the North American subjugation to the laws of consumerism and mass culture” (Lucamante 16).

In Mirta-Luna, it appears that Palazzolo does not attempt to make Mirta into a style icon to emulate (fashion plays no role in this series, and, in this way, this text’s content differs from that of a chick-lit novel); the brands mentioned are mostly an aside to give the scenes a realistic glow and reflect the tendency of the period “to be naturally shaped by contaminatio from media, cartoons, film, music, television, video and computer games, and even commercial ads” (Lucamante 22). This literary environment indelibly affected by mass media was a product of the “political and ideological realities” of Italy at that time (Lucamante 22). Furthermore, romanzi di formazione like Porci con le ali (1976) by Marco Lombardo Radice and Lidia Ravera (who wrote under the pen names of their protagonists, Rocco and Antonia)175 and Jack Frusciante è uscito dal gruppo by Brizzi, whom Nicoleta Călina calls “[i]l Salinger contemporaneo” (159), are a notable source of influence for contemporary authors, leaving ineffaceable marks in the Italian young-adult literary landscape.

Indeed, a reflection of Lucamante’s media-influenced youth, Mirta even likens some moments of her very real life to scenes viewed on television or in a movie: “Le loro parole, i discorsi, i pianti non giungono fino a te. Come un televisore senza audio. O un film muto” (I.88).176 While this likening can be comforting, allowing Mirta to extricate herself from her painful reality, it is also alienating, because she is not part and cannot be part of the reality that she is viewing. This is echoed by the Cannibali, many of whom “grew up in front of the television, a machine that is absolutely idolized by everyday individuals as a means of escape from reality” and even “a means for reaching a world unattainable from their geographical standpoint” (Lucamante 27–28). In Mirta-Luna, almost anachronistically, Mirta resorts to newspapers to reach “unattainable worlds”—not to escape reality, however, but to safely and anonymously approach it.177

175 See pp. 223–225 for more on Porci con le ali’s influence on young-adult literature. 176 See also pp. 38–40, in which I present Mirta’s inexperience with life, to the point that she at times gauges how to react in her immediate reality by thinking of scenes from cinematic productions—or films she has not even seen, but, rather, for which she has seen only the trailer, such was her fright and ignorance. 177 See pp. 58, 65, and 71–73.

123

The ubiquity of the television in Italian homes and the commercials that aired and were passively absorbed by the inadvertent viewer or listener inevitably led to the ubiquity and even the genericisation of certain trademarks.178 Brand names, like Coke and Kleenex in English—which have lost their status as proper nouns via metonymy, referring to a soft drink and to any brand of disposable tissue, respectively—are part of the “political and ideological realities” of Italians as well. Palazzolo produces effects of cultural immediacy as well as a sense of exoticism with the names of her characters and the inclusion of brand names. An examination of the manners in which she accomplishes this follows, along with examples from Palazzolo’s text and from her contemporaries’ works.

While the alternation between upper-case and lower-case initials in brand names is interesting on its own, as mentioned above, the presence of foreign brand names has become standard in Italian prose. Rayban, Kleenex, Evian, and Coca-Cola (amongst many others, mostly with reference to clothing and apparel) are all used in the Trilogia, but only the first two undergo nominalisation. Rayban is used with an uppercase r on I.392 because it is at the beginning of a sentence, with other appearances with a lower-case r on I.399 and I.407. In both instances, the brand-name adjective is nominalised metonymically, used as the noun for the Rayban-branded sunglasses. In the first instance, on I.392, it is at the beginning of the sentence; thus, it cannot be known whether it would have taken a lower-case r in its first use. This happens later in the text also with i kleenex (I.204 and I.205), yet, somehow, “la Coca-Cola” (I.25) resists this convention. A practice akin to this one appears in Pier V. Tondelli’s Pao Pao (from 1982) to refer to Converse Chuck Taylor All Star shoes: “non trova più la scarpa, comincia a gridare chi ha visto un’All Star rossa, ’codio, chi l’ha ciulata” (Tondelli qtd. in Antonelli, “Sessanta” 690).179 Indeed, these examples are in perfect alignment with the practices of other contemporary Italian writers who name-drop brand names with familiarity and regularity.

178 As we saw earlier with Mirt(in)a’s own identity (see pp. 48–49), there is a genericisation of brand names, too; see also p. 125. 179 Pier V. Tondelli, Pao Pao (Milan: Feltrinelli, 1982) 26–27.

124

Other brand names include the following: della Timberland (I.76);180 “Tutto firmato. Timberland. Reebok” (I.76); “Mamma veste solo Max Mara” (I.76); “Scarpe Pollini. Borse Prada, per l’estate Furla” (I.76); pepsi, with a lowercase p, as though to indicate the genericness of the beverage (I.77); Lo swatch! (I.104; again on I.109, both times with a lowercase s, with a metonymic effect, similar to that of pepsi and panda, of equating the specific swatch with the generic orologio); Una panda, with a lowercase p, rendering the type of car generic, like jeep (I.298), and then, in the very next sentence, “Un pandino azzurro”; della Escort (II.1); Évian (II.44, II.93, II.97, and six times on II.101), but, on III.107, Évian bears no acute accent, nor does it on III.164.

3.6 Anthroponymy

With regard to names of human and non-human characters, we see that some have significance, while others may simply be chosen for dramatic effect or aesthetics. The vampire Salvatore brothers of The Vampire Diaries, the undead-romance series by Smith, for instance, belong to the former category. Their surname, of course, means “saviour” in Italian, and this is acknowledged by one of the brothers, Stefan, in the series’ first book, The Awakening: “Do you know what the name Salvatore means in Italian, Elena? It means salvation, saviour” (Smith 229), reinforcing the idea that the weak, human female requires the salvation of her vampire paramour. Just as the meaning behind this character’s name cannot simply be ignored, Mirta’s last name, Fossati, is rife with meaning as well. Indeed, the girl who falls into the deep dark hole of drugs, is subsequently buried alive (rather, buried undead), and bursts through her temporary earthly abode upon waking up to immortality bears the masculine plural form of the name meaning “[f]osso di lunghezza e larghezza variabile, naturale o artificiale, spec. con acqua,” from late Latin “fossātu(m), part. pass. di fossāre, freq. di fŏdere ‘scavare’” (“Fossato”).

Ophelia, meanwhile, is Mirta’s pet cat. During Mirta’s stint on the run in the forests of the Subasio, Mirta starts to call any cat she sees by this name because each reminds her of her unjudgmental “gatto, che veramente è una gatta […]” (I.24), whom she affectionately called

180 Curiously, this is the precise brand invoked by Lucamante in her explanation of the Italian Generation X’s “love- hate relationship with American culture”—a generation of which Palazzolo and the Cannibali are a part: “its members were simultaneously fascinated with, and appalled by, the incredible mass-marketing ability in launching American goods, indiscriminately but not randomly chosen, like music, cinema, literature, and Timberland shoes throughout the world” (24).

125

Ophi. In both cases, the name features Greek spelling and the original form used by Shakespeare, not the alternative spelling better suited to Italian orthography and pronunciation, Ofelia. The cat’s Shakespearean name might indicate Mirta’s literary penchant, quite simply. However, it is perhaps more likely that it points to the ability of Ophi—or any other cat upon which Mirta bestows this name—to aid Mirta and temporarily alleviate her struggles. The Online Etymology Dictionary offers the following etymology for the name Ophelia: “fem. proper name, from Greek opheleia ‘help, aid,’ from ophelein ‘to help, aid, assist,’ ophelos ‘advantage, help,’ from PIE root *obhel- ‘to avail’ […]” (Harper). Indeed, as the etymology of the name suggests, Ophi helps Mirta by connecting the girl emotionally to her long-lost family and simpler mortal life.

Other anthroponyms included are Kevin Kostner (instead of Costner; I.25); Nightmare (referring to the film, with italics on I.29; without italics on I.70); “della felpa dei Nirvana. C’è Kurt stampato su” (I.76); Courtney (I.77);181 Elvis (I.77); il Re (to refer to Elvis; I.77).

3.7 “Exotic” and Foreign Influences

A glance at the book suggestions section on the web site of the Italian literary magazine Il Libraio on September 22, 2015,182 demonstrates just how saturated the Italian undead-romance canon is with translations; not a single proposta of theirs is of a local author. It is not unusual that works of Italian romance, supernatural in their content or otherwise, feature “una tendenza anglicizzante dell’italiano contemporaneo che vede la creazione di ipocoristici onomastici a partire dalla base iniziale del nome,” as in the books of Moccia, the wildly famous author of Italian romance novels (Ricci 326). In his novels and those of other Italian romance writers, Italian characters have English-sounding names and see their love stories bloom (or wane) in an otherwise completely Italian context; other times, they may feature a “sciatta commistione di prenomi italiani e cognomi stranieri” (Osvaldo Tacchi qtd. in Alfieri 214; Letizia Oudignac is the example provided). Ricci adds that the “molti anglicismi, non più evidenziati dal corsivo, ammiccano al pervasivo e mitizzato mondo dei consumi, e ad ambienti lavorativi emergenti (agenzie di pubblicità, redazioni televisive ecc.)” (314); as a result of the real globalised world

181 Mirta is on a first-name basis, it appears, with Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love, which makes evident the cultural intimacy that she feels with these individuals. 182 See Figure 1 on p. 126 and Figure 2 on p. 127 for screenshots, taken from “Libri & vampiri, tanti consigli di lettura.”

126 where everyone needs to know even minimal English to understand the languages of business and technology, it is inevitable that the multilingual realities of readers be reflected in the romance literature that they consume.

In Mirta-Luna, many of the characters have names that are not Italian: Robin (Roberto) De Dominicis, Paco (Giacomo) Ronchi, Max, Peter da Manchester, Gottfried, Lady Tattoo, Helena, Walther, Wolfram, to name only a few. Moccia’s characters favour non-Italian nicknames as well, such as Alex, Niki, Step, Babi, and Gin—though many of these are short for names that have Italian counterparts, such as Alessandro, Stefano (whence Step), and Ginevra.

127

Figure 2. The first selections of vampire novels, all by female authors from the English-speaking world, suggested on the web site for the Italian literary magazine Il Libraio

Antonelli boldly states that “stiamo vivendo appieno il dispiegarsi del «paradigma digitale»” (ISC 7–8), and amidst this paradigm shift, it is easy—and tempting!—to accuse the current youth, the present modellers of language, of changing the language for better or worse, of abusing anglicisms, of breaking grammatical rules. Antonelli underlines, however, that

[l]a mancanza di una visione storica [della lingua], infatti, comporta il rischio di scambiare fenomeni normali (letteralmente: riconducibili alla norma linguistica) per clamorosi sconvolgimenti; processi in atto da secoli per il portato — esecrabile o lodevole, secondo i pareri — dell’odierna società della comunicazione. (ISC 8)

We cannot blame the current generation for changes whose processes had already begun before the current generation started adopting them and making them more popular. That said, while English words are undeniably omnipresent in the works of Palazzolo and of other contemporary Italian writers, their presence is not as widespread, or relentlessly increasing, as one might think: “Sono i media, insomma, che offrono l’immagine di un italiano (artificialmente) saturo di parole ed espressioni angloamericane” (Antonelli, ISC 16). Furthermore, as Antonelli highlights, writing has been “de-sacralised,” in that it no longer necessarily holds exclusively formal and higher-brow purposes it once had and has become the everyday tool of the people, regardless of socioeconomic background or level of education.183

183 He explains: “il diffondersi della comunicazione telematica ha significato una netta rivincita per la scrittura. […] [A]desso si scrive dovunque per raggiungere chiunque e comunicare comunque. […] Se il testo diventa labile, la

128

While Antonelli has hard evidence to prove that the status quo does not bode as poorly for the future of the Italian language as one might think, his general evidence does not necessarily include the present reality of young-adult literature in specific: “All’inizio degli anni Settanta, l’incidenza degli anglicismi integrali era al di sotto dell’1% del patrimonio lessicale dell’italiano; oggi184 […] non raggiunge il 2%” (ISC 17). That said, it is important to underline that an increase in anglicisms—borrowings, namely—is not inherently negative, nor does it point to the eroding richness of the Italian language in speech or in writing; rather, “[a]lcuni di questi anglicismi possono essere considerati — a diverso titolo — parole simbolo del tempo in cui viviamo, e dunque quasi impossibili da sostituire con equivalenti italiani” (ISC 15). Furthermore, while Italian words and expressions might certainly exist for an English loanword in Italian, the “aura of prestige” is undeniable and contributes to the desirability of including English words in Italian texts (ISC 15): “A rendere poco probabile l’affermarsi di una traduzione italiana è proprio — di là dall’efficacia del sostituto proposto — il fascino legato al particolare status delle parole inglesi (si potrebbe quasi dire: al loro stesso suono)” (ISC 15). Clearly, we have come far from the convention of adapting foreign words to Italian sounds, “in cui i prestiti venivano quasi sempre adattati ai suoni e alle forme della nostra lingua […], secondo un meccanismo spontaneo” (ISC 11); now, we want foreign words to sound foreign.

Palazzolo is not immune to this aura that, “derivante da una certa sudditanza culturale andrebbe persa quando si ricorresse a una parola italiana, sia pure simile nel suono o sovrapponibile nel significato” (ISC 15). Thus, non-English authors might choose English words, consciously or otherwise, where an Italian word would have done just fine—as is the case, for instance, with trendy, which Antonelli ensures can be replaced by di tendenza (ISC 15).185 This practice occurs especially with whole loanwords, or prestiti integrali, taken from a language of higher prestige and blended into the writing or speech of another (Antonelli, ISC 13); the marked foreignness, or

scrittura passa nella sfera dell’effimero: scripta volant; se si scrive così spesso, scrivere diventa un gesto quotidiano, lontanissimo da quell’ufficialità e solennità di cui si era sempre ammantato” (ISC 11). 184 That is, the early 2000s, as Antonelli’s L’italiano nella società della comunicazione was published in 2007. 185 Also, see Giovanardi and Gualdo’s Inglese-Italiano 1 a 1. Tradurre o non tradurre le parole inglesi? (Lecce: Manni, 2008).

129 exoticism, in the target language is precisely the point: “L’effetto — voluto — è che le parole prese ‘in prestito’ senza subire alcuna modifica rimangono, nella lingua d’arrivo, corpi estranei” (ISC 15). Of the foreign words that are embraced by Mirta-Luna and her friends in the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna, words originating in the English-speaking world are, by far, the most numerous. This trend in the books is indicative of the current norm in Italian young-adult fiction, and these trends have been in play—and even promoted at a political level—for years.186

The following sections (3.8 and 3.9) briefly explore other manners in which the influence of English and of other languages is made manifest in the Trilogia. The presence of these languages occurs for the purpose of bringing a sense of exoticism into the text but can also simply be unremarkable, a simple result of the multifaceted nature of a language, like all languages, that is in a constant state of flux. Thus, in the following two sections appear lists and analyses of foreign words that are by no means exhaustive but are certainly representative of the foreign words in the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna. These are words that have not necessarily yet been subsumed by Italian, many of which are exclusive to the language of youth.187

3.8 English Onomatopoeia and Expressions from Comics

It is true that some of these terms are “unmarked” in regular usage—that is, they are included as words or expressions in dizionari dell’uso without any denomination of literary origin, vulgar register, or other determiner. The expression “dark lady,” for instance, used on I.68 (it is not italicised in its first use, but it is on I.219), is unmarked in Zingarelli,188 though it is of high

186 “Nel suo programma elettorale del 2001, Silvio Berlusconi presentava un progetto per l’istruzione tutto imperniato sull’insegnamento delle ‘tre I’: inglese (e non italiano), informatica e impresa (ovvero, coerentemente, due tra i linguaggi settoriali maggiormente intrisi di espressioni angloamericane)” (Antonelli, ISC 20). The realms of computer technology and business, rife as they are with technical terms and jargon, are, curiously, infiltrating the literary sphere like they never have before: “Finché il modello principale dell’italiano (per diversi secoli l’unico) è stato la lingua letteraria, i tecnicismi sono stati considerati parole che non dovevano uscire dal loro ristretto àmbito d’uso. […] Oggi, e già da qualche tempo, si registra una chiarissima inversione di tendenza. La lingua letteraria (se ancora esiste […]) non ha più alcuna autorevolezza, mentre godono di un grandissimo prestigio le scienze e i saperi tecnici (soprattutto tecnologici) a cui ci si rivolge sempre più spesso come fonti di lingua” (ISC 23). 187 For more analysis, see section 3.1, dedicated to the language of youth, on pp. 98–108. 188 Despite its high register, its first recorded use dates back to as recently as 1985: “[loc. ingl., propr. ‘dama (lady) bruna (dark)’, usata da W. Shakespeare nei suoi sonetti; 1985] loc. sost. f. inv. (pl. ingl. dark ladies) · Donna fatale che esercita un potere distruttivo sugli uomini che seduce” (Zingarelli, “dark lady”).

130 register, given its Shakespearean origins. Meanwhile, “andare in tilt,”189 as in “mi sarebbe già andata in tilt” (I.85–86), is marked as figurative usage. Additionally, “Clap clap clap. Dicesi: applauso” (I.95) may not be striking to the Italian reader, but the English origins of these words were striking to this English-speaking reader. Some of these onomatopoeic expressions have a simple background: the early tradition of translated American comic books in foreign countries, which “have exerted a lasting influence on world comics […] because they have been and still are translated […] in large numbers […] [and] have introduced genres and models (themes, drawing styles, visual conventions) which have been incorporated and developed within other national traditions” (Zanettin 2). The English onomatopoeic words and expressions were often maintained even in the target language, thus clap clap clap is not remarkable to the Italian reader, because when comics started to be translated en masse, foreign translators could choose either to replace the English term with its equal in the target language (for instance, English yum or mmm to express delight in eating, would be replaced with Italian gnam) or to maintain the English term (as with clap clap clap).

Carmen Valero Garcés explains that, in the 1950s and 1960s, Spain “saw the first period of mass diffusion of comic books […] and authors and translators were finding it difficult to create onomatopoeia or sound representations in Spanish at such a rapid pace” (239). To further complicate matters, if an onomatopoeic expression was an integral part of a drawing, translators were less likely to offer a translation of the lexical item, as that would incur higher publishing costs if parts of the art needed to be redone to accommodate the translation (Valero Garcés 238). “In the 1980s,” Valero Garcés concludes, “comic books continued to be greatly influenced by English, and as a consequence the permanence of the borrowed forms”—such as boom or bang—“was ensured” (239).190 Silvia Morgana corroborates this, explaining that, with regard to onomatopoeic expressions in Italian, in many cases “si tratta di parole provviste di significato nella lingua di provvenienza, l’inglese, e interpretate al lettore italiano come semplici suoni o rumori, letti secondo la sequenza grafica e non secondo la fonetica inglese”—which includes words like “vrooom (rombo di un motore),” “slam (sbattere di una porta),” and, finally, “clap

189 “Fare, andare in t[ilt], (est.) subire un guasto, detto di circuiti elettrici o elettronici; (fig.) perdere il controllo o la lucidità mentale” (Zingarelli, “tilt”). 190 A curious related side-note: In a Dylan Dog scene (Sclavi 304) in which a Polaroid is being snapped of a woman, in expressing her preparation to smile, the woman uses the English exclamation for these circumstances: “Cheese!”

131

(applauso)” (168). Subsequently, many of these words followed a transmedial trajectory, forming part of the linguistic patrimony of Italian and landing themselves in dictionaries and in media other than comics proper (Morgana 168), like here, in the Trilogia.

Other English borrowings, with diverse origins (from pop and rock music, comic books, television, and film, for instance), include the following: “STOP. FINISH. BREAK” (I.104; Stop on II.1 also); Strange Days (I.21; this is the name of the bar/disco that Mirta and her friends used to frequent); “Oh, baby, baby, it’s a wild world” (I.82; this quotation from “Wild World,” by Cat Stevens, appears thrice, each as part of its own paragraph and with no closing period);191 “Come un’acid music sparata a palla” (I.230); “il must dei must” (I.328); “brain storming” (I.332); “Lui è soft” (I.336); “Lui dice, yes” (I.342); “Self control, tesoro” (II.33); “Che meraviglia d’amore. Un vero paradiso. Pleasantville forever” (III.207; no italics in Pleasantville, despite its being an English word and the title of a film. This treatment occurs also with Strange Days, Wild World, and Dylan Dog, though not always consistently); “No problem, Luna, ha detto” (III.264).

The words trendy (I.82 and, on I.122, “fa così trendy”) and batmobile (I.141) deserve a little bit more attention. For the first, according to Manzoni (164–165), the origins, evidently, lie in English: “il termine si è diffuso negli ultimi anni [his book was published in 1997] con velocità epidemica. Sta per: la/il/i ragazza/o/i che fa/fanno tendenza.” As for batmobile, it is used by Mirta to describe with obvious contempt the automobile of the straccio, Mario Cerruti, that she meets at a bar. The word is nominalised and rendered generic (expressed with a lower-case b)— as though there were not only one Batmobile. Subsequently, Mirta coins the delightful term, batscemo, for the individual responsible for driving the vehicle: “Vorrei ridere. Invece provo di nuovo pena. Per me. Che devo salire sulla batmobile in compagnia di un tale batscemo” (I.141).

Speaking of “trendy,” the aforementioned bat-convention is in keeping with the trend stylised by the creator of the original Batman television show, Lorenzo Semple, Jr. (Peters). Despite Batman’s birth in the late 1930s, words employing the bat- prefix are still en vogue today, which would make Mirta’s use of the prefix familiar and not peculiar at all to the reader (especially given Mirta’s former relationship with Francesco, a horror and comic-book aficionado, and, thus,

191 See pp. 82–85 in Chapter 2 for more on this.

132 it can be assumed that she would, consequently, be exposed to books and associated media).192 Mark Peters illustrates the colourful variety of terms using this prefix:

Some refer to allies of Batman, like Batgirl and Batwoman, or lesser-known characters like Batboy, Bat-Hombre, and the Bat-Squad. There are many Bat-vehicles: Batboat, Batcycle, Batgyro, Batmarine, and Batplane. […] Batwing has been the name of a vehicle and, more recently, an ally of Batman’s. There’s even Batzarro, who’s defined as the opposite of Batman: “the world’s worst detective.”

Using the bat- prefix has since become a sort of silly cliché, amusing though it might be. Mirta’s use of the prefix diminishes Mario’s worth and that of his materialistic treasures, rendering them nothing but clichés themselves; Mario is not an individual but a whatshisname as unremarkable as a shred of cloth—uno straccio, which is just what Mirta calls him.

3.9 Borrowings from French and Other Languages

French borrowings are amongst the most common foreign loanwords in the series, though a few outliers from other languages exist. “Quel horreur!” (III.233) and “È ancora amour fou?” (III.233) feature expressions that are italicised in the text, while Touché, on III.241 is not. Most words of French origin appear in the third book, as it is in this part of the series that Mirta-Luna meets Max, her best friend in immortality, who is centuries older than she is, has travelled the world, and, notably, speaks French, Spanish, and Italian with ease.

A word originating in Arab lore, Algul (III.64, III.65, and III.67), is used by Sara’s best friend and caretaker, Helena, to denote the type of undead creature that Sara and Mirta are. The algul was made famous in One Thousand and One Nights and denotes a “vampiric demon, whose name translates as ‘horse-leech’ or ‘bloodsucking DJINN’. […] [I]ts preferred prey is infants,” though it “can survive from eating only a few grains of rice every day” (Bane 29–30). Since Mirta and her kind express no preference for infants and ingest flesh and not simply blood, this association between the sopramorti and the algul is somewhat imprecise. Nonetheless, just as the vampire and the immortal flesh-eating zombie are similar but not identical, it seems fitting that

192 But, of course, Mirta’s dialogue is written by a woman who lived when the Batman series was in syndication and at its height in popularity.

133 this imprecision on Palazzolo’s part—or the fictional Helena’s—mirrors the faulty association of the entire Trilogia di Mirta-Luna with vampire fiction.193

Other borrowings include the following: mechati (I.10 and I.246); paté (I.66), without the circumflex accent on the a; nel pied-à-terre (I.74); la maîtresse (twice on III.246); “Buttarle in caciara” (I.16); tappeti kilim (I.74), with kilim as an invariable adjective; machi (II.253) as a plural for the adjective macho, normalised for Italian pluralising conventions; del sari (III.168); “una tinta all’henné” (III.244).

3.10 Verb Agreement

Not infrequently, Palazzolo begins sentences with an infinitive, as a continuation of the previous sentence whose main verb directs the infinitive; she does this rather than creating one longer sentence containing multiple infinitives as the objects of the conjugated verb. In the following token example, instead of an unremarkable “Lei doveva soltanto tener ferma la posizione [e] battere e ribattere sullo stesso punto,” Palazzolo has Mirta roughly split the full sentence, attaining the effect, in this instance, of Mirta’s objectively separating duties, as though in a written numbered list: “Lei doveva soltanto tener ferma la posizione. Battere e ribattere sullo stesso punto” (I.11). The same effect of objectivity appears thanks to the separated infinitives in the following: “Adesso voleva solo dare l’ultimo saluto a suo figlio, scappare, come tanti anni prima. Tornare a Bruxelles. Poter piangere in pace” (I.10); however, there is a differently nuanced outcome in the employment of that technique here, wherein one can almost hear a resigned sigh between each crudely separated list item.

Palazzolo’s typical oft-corrupted syntax is the norm in this text, as we have seen. I believe, however, that it would be unwise to ignore the nuances that split phrases (amongst other forms) betray, notably when they are juxtaposed with their unremarkable unadulterated equivalents.

193 Maurizio Stefanini notes that Palazzolo had been called “[l]a regina dell’horror italiano […]. La nostra Anna Rice o Stephenie Meyer [...]. Magari, se l’Italia avesse la stessa capacità di proiezione culturale che hanno gli States, si sarebbe forse detto che era Stephenie Meyer la Chiara Palazzolo Americana.” Different though Palazzolo’s Trilogia is from the works of Meyer and Rice, “Non mi uccidere continues to be mistaken for featuring vampires rather than zombies, as numerous articles about the series pronounce (Stefanini, Chimera, Verrengia, Misserville). Even the cover art of the latest paperback edition of Non mi uccidere deceives the reader by aligning it erroneously with shape-shifting vampires: it features an image of a bat soaring in front of a full moon” (Vani 9).

134

Indeed, as I have demonstrated here and elsewhere,194 it is often the case that these types of practices and verbal forms are employed consciously to accentuate an imitation of orality. In addition to prominent uses of the infinitive, Palazzolo employs a rich array of verbal tenses in both the indicative and the subjunctive, allowing Mirta to reflect a richness in her speech and thoughts. Nevertheless, Palazzolo still often employs colloquial verb forms where an alternative would have been clearer, a form that the reader knows Mirta has and can use. For instance, in “Non dovevo mangiarli. Adesso potrebbero aiutarmi” (II.10), Mirta expresses what she ought not to have done in the past using the colloquial indicative imperfect (dovevo) where a past conditional (avrei dovuto) would have been more “standard,” mirroring a construction that is typical of informal spoken Italian.

Similarly, imperfect indicative verbs are used throughout the following excerpt, starting from Scappava, and would be better rendered with the past conditional. This is not entirely unusual for informal indirect discourse; the final imperfect, however, where “Che mi ammazzava” might be traditionally rendered with the imperfect subjunctive, is notable:

Piangeva come una fontana. Diceva che si ammazzava. Poi che ammazzava me. Che mi ammazzava e si ammazzava. Scappava di casa e bisognava andare a cercarlo fin nel più sperduto villaggio del Sud-est asiatico. […] Veronica poi non mi mollava un secondo. Diceva che poteva succedere. Che mi ammazzava, voglio dire. (I.30)

The indirect discourse further blurs the lines between intention and actuality: Is Mirta saying that Francesco was progressively killing himself and killing her, or was he alluding to a morbid potential future? In the previous dramatic expressions, the imperfect, if taken to be intentionally employed and literal, is to be interpreted as a progressive, ongoing action: Mirta broke up with Francesco and, for this reason, the latter cried like a fountain and was killing himself—in their relationship, perhaps, or in the aftermath of their breakup—and he claimed that she, too, was killing herself progressively. Clearly, however, the author is having Mirta convey in a colloquial manner, via the imperfetto rather than the grammatical condizionale passato to express the future from the point of view of the past, what Francesco’s plans were: to kill himself, to kill her (in that order, it appears, in his adolescent logic), and to leave home for a South-Asian destination.

194 See pp. 52–58 in Chapter 2.

135

This, as Gheno explains, is all part of the pattern of young people, who possess the “tendenza […] all’uso di espressioni iperboliche” (“Socializzare in rete” 59).195

It is unsurprising that this ungrammatical sequence of tenses coexists with instances in which Palazzolo has her characters employ the subjunctive and the conditional with ease; for instance: “Se non avessi avuto metodo, per esempio, non sarei riuscita a spuntarla con i miei per la questione della mansarda” (I.26). Another example of the imperfect indicative preferred over the past conditional appears on I.238, reflecting the colloquial uses of above: “Potevo spararti! gli dico. Sei impazzito?” Finally, a wonderful example of intentional intermingling of tenses and mixing of chronological events in the narrative is demonstrated in the monologue by Paco on I.325. It is, certainly, imitative of events recounted in speech:

Mi aveva chiamato. Mi ha detto che sarebbe venuto giù sabato. Gli ho detto, ceniamo insieme. Mi ha detto che non sapeva quando arrivava. Prima passava da Mirtina. Quando stava con Magda, mica faceva tutti questi casini. E poi, Magda. È un tipo diverso. Oh, stravedeva per Robin. Ancora adesso, sai. Mica s’è ripresa dalla botta. Sta lì strippata sul divano a sentire mille volte Cat Stevens e Neil Young. (I.325–326)

Myriad other descriptions such as this one appear elsewhere in the texts, marvellously reflecting the traits of orality and indirect discourse.196

4 Summary and Conclusions

In this chapter, I underlined issues pertaining to orthography, formatting, punctuation, and, most notably, the lexicon employed in Mirta-Luna. I built upon the analyses and descriptions made in Chapter 2 on genre categorisation, syntax, and stylistics, emphasising the smaller details pertaining to the linguistic, paralinguistic, and lexical choices made by Palazzolo in the Trilogia.

Additionally, I demonstrated that the punctuation in the narrative is used more than just simply as a utilitarian measure to demarcate the structure of the plot and that, to paraphrase Tonani (15),

195 See p. 100. 196 See Chapter 2 for more on this.

136 the punctuation functions to simultaneously serve the aesthetic purpose of providing the visual unfurling of the narrative on the page while also uncovering the face of the existential experience of the protagonist. The punctuation (and formatting) choices are crucial in this diaristic text to expose Mirta-Luna’s crises and triumphs; the thoughts, doubts, worries, and anxieties that plague her; and the manner in which her mind processes all that she sees, feels, touches, and senses. Indeed, in this chapter, I demonstrated why the reader must pay attention to the nuances of Palazzolo’s oft-corrupted syntax, underlining that these types of practices and verbal forms are employed consciously to accentuate an imitation of orality.

Furthermore, I reviewed the extensive variety of colloquial terms, genericised brand names, anthroponyms, expressions that reflect orality, youth slang terms, and even sexual euphemisms, comparing this corpus of lexical items to the larger one composed by works of fiction by Palazzolo’s contemporaries in the chick-lit and teen-lit subgenres of horror and romance novels, in addition to splatter novels such as those of the Cannibali. The writers of works in these genres and subgenres make conscious stylistic and lexical selections that often have roots in languages other than the source text’s to create literary works that are attractive to young readers. These young people, as inhabitants of a global village whose own speech is influenced by a variety of media from around the world, enjoy the scorrevolezza of the characters’ speech, which is peppered with foreign expressions and colloquial terms, as these fictional individuals “speak” just like them.

On a related note, I reiterated in this chapter some of the key points in the discussion on genre from Chapter 2. Namely, through concrete lexical examples related to explicit content, I maintained, in the subsection on sex, that the generic compartmentalisation of the Trilogia is further complicated; this is because the explicit manner in which sexual activities are expressed in the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna is unmatched by Palazzolo’s undead-romance contemporaries in either the chick-lit or teen-lit subcategories of the romance or horror parent genres—in Italy or in English-speaking spheres. Much unlike in the contemporary American Twilight series by Meyer, for example, imagined, remembered, or acted sexual intercourse and foreplay are described with explicit coarse words and expressions by Palazzolo’s characters.

It is the Lexicon section in this chapter that proved to be most intellectually invigorating to me, as the late Palazzolo, in her series on the fledgling sopramorta’s adventures, appears to

137 effortlessly blend myriad traits from diverse worlds, cultures, and influences into a seamless narrative experience—and not just in terms of linguistics. The naïve, inexperienced, and studious 19-year-old Mirta, from a well-to-do family, mixes with a drug-addicted 29-year-old farabutto; eventually, Mirta allows herself to be swayed by this man and, upon entering his world of obscurity while still in her mortal existence, comes out the other side, truly embodying a dichotomy that never, in reality, can coexist in a single being: life and death.

As an undead creature, or a sopramorto, Mirta must navigate life after mortal death, though she is unable to live out her former life and, thus, needs to renounce her loved ones to whom she never had the opportunity to say goodbye; indeed, as a sopramorto, Mirta must endure the cruellest of fates: knowing the misery of one’s own post-mortem, watching her loved ones suffer and have to move on without her—and this is without mentioning navigating the complications of a decaying undead body. Finally, having accepted to abandon all of her intense desires to regain her former life, Mirta continually vacillates between two battling personalities: the innocence and gentleness of predictable Mirta and the vengeance and ire of the newly-surfaced impulsive Luna. These two identities in one body provide the foundation of the series, and one never truly disappears, even as the other is favoured. The crude, cruel, and merciless Luna allows a muffled Mirta to survive in her afterlife—but just barely, allowing only what is truly necessary to make appearances, as to completely embody Mirta as a sopramorta would be a liability, since the sopramorti subsist on murder and the consumption of living human flesh.

Though speaking specifically of vampires, Bailie reiterates that this coexistence of hybrid natures is essential to the “popular” undead romance:197

That the vampire heroes in the paranormal romances do not originate as products of Satan or some dark force is crucial to the acceptance of the vampire as hero in this genre. According to [Jules] Zangor, depictions of the modern vampire, as opposed to the older traditional vampires modeled on Bram Stoker’s Dracula, have “very little of that metaphysical, anti-Christian dimension . . . his . . . evil acts[’] [being] expressions of individual personality and conditions, not of any cosmic conflict between God and Satan” (18). In these romances it is this that demarcates the vampire hero from the vampire as villain; the evil vampire makes a deliberate choice to embrace his darker nature, while the vampire hero not only struggles against the temptation but will sacrifice himself rather than succumb to it. (143)

197 However, she alludes to there being an absence of “Satan or some dark force” lying behind the reason for an undead creature’s existence, which may not necessarily be the case in the Trilogia; the reason behind the ability of the sopramorti to “wake up” from immortal slumber, apart from “la rabbia dei morti,” is simply never discussed.

138

Mirta-Luna becomes the undead heroine in this series; it is her struggle that the reader witnesses. Furthermore, in a twisted fate compared to that in other paranormal romances, the sacrifice of Mirta’s own life for her lover, Robin, ends up ruining her existence rather than improving it, while her supposed hero never appears to have struggled at all, motivated as he is only by evil. The fact that Mirta-Luna even has another self to struggle with and deny—just like the vampire has a former docile human life to reconcile with a predatory immortal one—makes her a candidate for redemption, even if she never achieves it.

It is important to revisit such dichotomies and conflicts, which are central to this series, and the coexistence of life and death not just in Mirta-Luna’s national meanderings but also those figurative meanderings in herself, because Palazzolo invites influences of diverse and opposing origins into her narrative as well. Although she is not the first to do so, Palazzolo blends the (at least initial) innocence of the romance with the brutal betrayals of horror; the educated and analytical expressions of Mirta, the philology student, with the low-brow, vulgar mutterings of two rejected sexual partners; the erudite presence of Ludwig Wittgenstein with the base ponderings of zombies and drug addicts; and, of course, sweet and innocent Mirta, terrified by horror films and abhorring profanities, with devil-may-care and ruthless Luna, who curses like a sailor and lives by instinct like a wild animal.

Building on the last of these dichotomies, I am reminded of the prominent romance tropes that I examined in the first two chapters of this thesis: the heroine is inferior in status to her hero but ultimately attains his status and equals him in power and influence. Mirta-Luna, indeed, fulfills this trope in this unconventional romance but while opposing several other conventions. As discussed in the first two chapters, even Meyer, who arguably was responsible for popularising the contemporary undead romance in the early 2000s with her blissful joining of human Bella and vampire Edward, created a series of novels that were devoid of overt horror, explicit copulation, and cursing; these, too, featured only heterosexual relationships, as dictated by romance norms (and, debatably, Meyer’s own Mormon beliefs and traditions). Palazzolo shattered these expectations and made the genre her own, with a bisexual, degenerate female killer as her protagonist.

But Mirta-Luna the heroine-villainess is not unredeemable, and that, perhaps, is the unique circumstance of this series: even at Mirta-Luna’s worst, the reader still roots for the girl, just as

139 the reader of the rosa wishes for the triumph of love between the heroine and the hero, no matter how insurmountable the obstacles for their romance appear to be. While, initially, Mirta-Luna’s regaining of her paramour appears to be the victory for which the reader wishes, ultimately, it is the victory of good over evil, or maybe just the gaining of peace in (un)death (even if that is through vengeance) that the reader desires for Mirta-Luna. After all, the studious, compassionate, and family-loving Mirta still exists somewhere beneath the agony of being undead, and she deserves to be resurrected, no matter how often and how insistently Luna denies her existence.

In conclusion, I believe Palazzolo to be a trailblazer in building this budding genre in Italy, and it is without hyperbole that I proclaim this, and I am also not alone in saying so.198 As we will see in Chapter 4, few, if any, of Palazzolo’s Italian contemporaries employ the model—if the sum of its disparate parts can be called such—that Palazzolo demonstrated. Indeed, most writers of Italian undead romances take Meyer as well as the traditional rosa as their inspiration, eschewing the majority of the traits that the Sicilian writer all but trademarked in her series. Nonetheless, they are still able to be classified amongst other undead romances due to the presence of the vampire and of conventional romance in their narratives.

Linguistically and stylistically, Palazzolo’s works are rich and demonstrate a vast array of influences and sources, offering an intelligent and multi-faceted style of prose that stands apart from their contemporaries’. The same cannot be said for the series that we will study in Chapters 4 and 5, A cena col vampiro, however, whose stylistic tendencies (like Meyer’s) are much more simplistic. Still, notable and interesting linguistic and stylistic peculiarities are evidenced in the obeisance of rosa culture and convention that allow that series to stand out in its own right. For now, Palazzolo and her Trilogia di Mirta-Luna are the stars, and as we close these chapters on the language and style of the late writer’s masterpiece, we eagerly await the surfacing of another delightfully daring and decadent series on a sopramorto like Mirta-Luna.

198 To provide just one example, though there are many, is the statement by Luca Azzolini, journalist and critic of works of fantasy: “Chiara Palazzolo è stata senza ombra di dubbio una delle più note e brillanti autrici di horror italiane. Una delle prime nel nostro paese a donare spessore e carattere a un genere che ha abbracciato con romanzi di grande impatto e profondità. Storie dalla scrittura asciutta e dallo stile incisivo, che convogliava in romanzi di spessore, capaci di spaziare dal genere mainstream, al fantastico, fino all’horror. […] Nota al grande pubblico per la trilogia Mirta/Luna (attualmente in ristampa per la collana Piemme Best Seller), [Palazzolo] ha lanciato in Italia un genere - quello horror - frequentato soprattutto da autori anglosassoni. La serie, con grande anticipo sui tempi, reinventò in modo del tutto originale il mito del vampiro” (Azzolini).

140

Chapter 4 The Conventional Romantic Charm of the Purple-Eyed Vampires: the Style of the A cena col vampiro Books199

1 Introduction: Edward and Bella Host a Dinner for Ethan and Liz

Each of the seven books in the A cena col vampiro series, published by Mamma Editori, contains the following introductory description:

In fatto di vampiri, la magia dell’epica sembra più che mai rinnovarsi. Nella koinè letteraria, migliaia di fans di ogni paese, continuano a immaginarne e a leggerne le avventure. Per questi tipi, la collana A cena col vampiro intende dar conto del fenomeno, con l’avvertenza, che non tutte le storie mantengono il profilo adolescenziale e romantico, alcune autrici hanno voluto narrare in modo più crudo le passioni, altre più attratte dal titanismo dei signori della notte, ne hanno descritto dettagliatamente la violenza. Altre ancora tornano in puro stile Brontiano, al momento magico in cui sboccia l’amore impossibile. (Folgorata, “Collana A cena col vampiro” 3)

Pointing to a “literary koiné” in reference to the undead romance is notable in an Italian novel: it establishes a foundation for and gives legitimacy to the subgenre, niche though it may be, outside of its realm of birth in the United Kingdom and, later, the United States. If there is a common language that unites these authors—a common form—the language of the signori della notte is one that is mutually understood by readers of Italian undead romances. Indeed, in the context of sociolinguistics, Jeff Siegel explains that

a koine is the stabilized result of mixing of linguistic subsystems such as regional or literary dialects. It usually [serves] as a lingua franca among speakers of the different contributing varieties and is characterized by a mixture of features of these varieties and most often by reduction or simplification in comparison. (363)

Mamma Editori adapts this perfectly to the context of their series, which features the writings of

199 These books, which will be published by Òphiere as they are “in fase di remake totale,” are currently referred to as La saga della sedicesima notte (“La Saga della Sedicesima Notte”). This naming convention—that is, referring to the series as a saga—is fitting, as each book in the series shares the same characters and is inspired by the Twilight Saga by Meyer.

141 four authors who spin tales about the amorous encounters of the vampiri dagli occhi viola, the Rochester clan of vampires from Scotland. These vampires and many of their exploits are explicitly modelled on the supernatural creatures and adventures in Meyer’s Twilight Saga;200 furthermore, the books in the A cena col vampiro series were published in quick succession shortly following the publication of Meyer’s books and, in fact, overlapping with them over the years. Meyer and her predecessors created a language and content that were intelligible to readers of romance by starting with a convention that had already been established and accepted by “migliaia di fans di ogni paese”: the romance novel with a vampire as the hero. This, in turn, had started with the standard romance frame, which underwent the change of swapping out the powerful, wealthy, and beautiful human male paramour with a vampire who possesses those very same qualities, spiced up with the final characteristic that makes him ever more desirable: eternal youth, or immortality.

With the immense global success of the Twilight Saga,201 translated into 37 languages including Italian (Erzen xiii), fan writings began to sprout online in diverse communities of admirers of the books, their characters, and their authors. Fan fiction (also known as “fanfic”) for the Twilight series began to cover ground in many countries, even non–English-speaking ones; the Fifty Shades trilogy by E L James, for instance, and its subsequent film franchise offer a fundamental example (Erzen 78). Twilight fanfic had fertile ground in which to burgeon and grow, as fans were still hungry for more of this paranormal romance at the peak of its popularity—giving a voice to unaddressed potential turning points in the plot—and also once the series had concluded. As the publisher of A cena col vampiro attests in the introduction to the series, the works are the fruit of the desires and curiosities of fans of undead romances that were published during their surge in popularity in the early 2000s. Mark Duffett explains this process:

200 On page 2 of the first book in the series, Moonlight rainbow, three web sites are listed to connect readers with the other books in the series, the author, and the group of women known as the “Bloody Roses Secret Society” who publish under pen names for Mamma Editori. The web site to connect with the author is edwardandbella.forumcommunity.net/?t=28909437—“Edward” and “Bella” being the protagonists of Twilight. The banner for the web site (as of August 4, 2017) bears an image of the fictional couple as played by actors Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart in the accompanying films. 201 Immediately following the height of the series’ popularity, in 2012, Erzen’s book was published. Erzen states that the “cultural phenomenon” of the Twilight Saga consists of “[t]hirteen million copies of the books” sold in the United States, “116 million copies, worldwide,” and “film adaptations [that] are some of the highest-grossing movies of all time” (xiii).

142

Most media products – whether feature films, games or soaps – offer up a world of narratives and characters that can be enjoyed in a conventional sense, but can also be enjoyed in a new way if they are appropriated in imaginative writing. As the basis for their own creative ventures, fans adopt, organize and fictionalize these narrative worlds. Fanfic is fictional writing created by the fans inspired by the objects of their interest. (170; bold in original)

Meyer, a “devout member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints” (Erzen xiv–xv) and writing for an audience of teenage girls and young women (Ames 42), kept her stories relatively virginal, having scenes of passion between teenage Bella Swan and immortal Edward Cullen never climax (pun intended):202 Edward repeatedly rejects Bella’s advances, lest his vampiric urges overtake his fierce self-discipline that is still “only human” (Twilight 263, 265, 283) in the presence of this mortal whose very blood’s scent is like a drug to him (267–268).

Thus, their encounters, though still titillating by romance standards, left readers wanting, some of whom wished to take their dissatisfaction into their own hands.203 This is one of the essential functions of fan fiction, which acts as “a vehicle for marginalized subcultural groups (women, the young, gays, and so on) to pry open space for their cultural concerns within dominant representations,” allowing female readers, both young and mature, to “appropriat[e] media texts and [reread] them in a fashion that serves different interests” (Jenkins 40). These rereadings and rewritings make manifest “the capacity of ordinary people to use media as a resource which can be actively reshaped in order to meet their own specific needs or interests” (Duffett 171); furthermore, at times, the imagination and creative prowess of fan-fiction writers outshine the works that these budding authors imitate, resulting in fan followings all their own (171).

This is where A cena col vampiro, which will be rebranded as La saga della sedicesima notte by its new publishing house, Òphiere, comes in.204 The series contains seven books,205 though only

202 Edward, born in 1901, “has been 17 years old since 1918” (Erzen xii); he was made a vampire that year to cure him of the Spanish flu and he would forever remain unchanged (Twilight 287). 203 See Erzen 31–49 and 79–102. 204 Though the series is being rebranded under this name, I have excluded La sedicesima notte from my study, as I wished to restrict my research to three books of presumed generic consistency in this series in order to mirror the three books studied in Chapters 2 and 3 of this thesis. Furthermore, since Moonlight rainbow is indicated in the book itself as novel “n. 1” of the series, I elected to study the supposed intended face of the series first. The prequel to the story of Liz Campbell and Ethan Rochester, Raining stars (“n. 4”), was the logical next choice. Finally, Porcaccia, un vampiro! (“n. 5”) was selected since it is an outlier in its plot diversity: it takes place in Italy and not in Great Britain, and it features a love story between a vampire man and a human man. Like Mirta-Luna, it overturns the traditionally heterosexual focus in undead romances of the bond between a vampire man and a human woman; the Italian setting and the same-gender love stories in Porcaccia and Mirta-Luna offered an admittedly unexpected connection. Still, though Mamma Editori labelled Porcaccia an A cena col vampiro novel, it will not be part of the

143 six, listed below, deal with vampires explicitly. In this chapter, I examine the three bolded titles only: a. Moonlight rainbow (2009; book #1 in the series) and In una gelida rosa (2010; book #6), by Violet Folgorata; b. La sedicesima notte (2009; book #2) and L’alba della chimera (2010; book #7), by Margaret Gaiottina; c. Raining stars (2010; book #4), by Michaela Dooley; d. and Porcaccia, un vampiro! (2009; book #5), by Giusy De Nicolo.

This chapter comprises the penultimate instalment in my study of the language and style of the contemporary Italian undead-romance novel. The analysis of these books is modelled on the format of the preceding two chapters, beginning with an introduction to the books’ plots to situate them in the context of their contemporary literary sphere. Because this Italian vampire- romance series would not exist had Edward and Bella not predeceased it (spoiler ahead: Bella becomes a vampire), a concise overview of the Twilight Saga will be provided as well.

As mentioned above, three novels by three separate authors will be examined and discussed in this chapter. While there are certainly disparities in style in the writings of these three authors— namely, that of De Nicolo differs greatly—they were all handled by the same editorial team.206 Folgorata’s and Dooley’s novels, in particular, share much in common, linguistically and stylistically, as they adhere rigidly to the conventions of contemporary romances, as discussed in Chapter 1. Moreover, their plots feature the same cast of characters inhabiting the same fictional plane, which also serves to unite their styles in an influential manner. Finally, in terms of seriality, to unify the books thematically, all of the A cena col vampiro books that feature the world of Ethan and Liz have authors writing under pseudonyms, bear titles vaguely referring to environmental phenomena, and contain a printed piece of parchment amongst the first few pages

“reimagined” series. By choosing these three A cena col vampiro books to study in these chapters, I became privy to a wide span of styles of writing, all within the same genre and within the same time period. 205 Book #3, Dark angel (2010), by Fanny Goldrose, has been excluded, as it does not feature vampires. 206 For a detailed discussion of the copyediting endeavours of the publisher, see pp. 189–190.

144 of each book. De Nicolo’s Porcaccia, written under the author’s real name (though she does publish books under the pseudonym J. Tangerine), evades the influence of the rest of the series while still being published under its umbrella.207

Thus, while a different name (pseudonymic or otherwise) is splashed on the cover of each of these three books, they are studied together as they were assumed to share relevant and notable traits under the umbrella and editorial authority of A cena col vampiro. That being said, as we will discover throughout this chapter and Chapter 5, De Nicolo shares much more in common linguistically and stylistically with Palazzolo than with her peers under Mamma Editori.

In the interest of expediency, I have separated the stylistic analyses according to the traits examined and not according to the books examined. Thus, all of the books may be discussed in any section, usually starting with book 1 in the series, Moonlight rainbow. Finally, page numbers of reference from Moonlight rainbow will be preceded by MR; Raining stars, RS; and Porcaccia, un vampiro!, PV (i.e., PV 9 indicates page 9 from Porcaccia, un vampiro!).

1.1 The Plot and Fictional Backdrop of A cena col vampiro: American Edward and Bella Become British208 Liz and Ethan

Henry Jenkins defines one of the fundamental traits of fandom as the “ability to transform personal reaction into social interaction, spectatorial culture into participatory culture” (41). He continues: “One becomes a ‘fan’ not by being a regular viewer of a particular program but by translating that viewing into some kind of cultural activity, by sharing feelings and thoughts about program content with friends, by joining a ‘community’ of other fans who share common interests” (41). A cena col vampiro, whose title is an evident nod to Rice’s Intervista col vampiro and possibly includes a reference to the 1967 American film Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner,209

207 See p. 189 for a brief discussion of the subtle acknowledgment on the part of the publisher that Porcaccia should be published separately. In fact, the book has since been republished (by Òphiere), in its third edition, under the title Echi di sangue (2015). 208 While much of the narrative takes place in Scotland, Ethan is originally from Ireland, and Liz, from Gibraltar. 209 Indeed, the association between the Italian title of the film, Indovina chi viene a cena?, and the name of the Mamma Editori series, A cena col vampiro, carries with it the connotations of blending guests with different backgrounds but with more similarities than differences. However, associating the two is problematic, since the film deals with an interracial couple in the years when interracial marriages were illegal in the actual United States and these couples could face persecution; meanwhile, as far as the lore of A cena col vampiro explores, vampire-human couples are not under legal threat, since vampires are believed to be the stuff of legend only. The scene set in Guess

145 is a fanfic series born from the drama and passion generated by Edward and Bella in Meyer’s Twilight Saga. The admiration of and fascination with the Saga gathered momentum in fan communities like that of the “Bloody Roses Secret Society,” which sprang from the Italian Twilight fan community online at edwardandbella.forumcommunity.net. With their common interest in supernatural love and lust, the women in this group, headed by Violet Folgorata (one of Monica Montanari’s numerous pen names), came together to participate and create in the encouraging space of this community (Montanari). Thus, A cena col vampiro was born.

Members of the Bloody Roses Secret Society, who found a new home at docks.forumcommunity.net, are not limited to those authors who were a part of A cena col vampiro; they include (in the order in which they are listed on the forum web site, linked from the Òphiere web page)210 Folgorata, Gaiottina, Tangerine, Fanny Goldrose,211 Imogen Barnabas, and Emerson Marlow. Note that Dooley is excluded,212 and De Nicolo is not listed either, but Tangerine, her other pen name, is. Their leader and publisher, Montanari, an accomplished and forthcoming woman with diverse experiences in journalism, politics, ghost-writing, and fiction- writing under various pseudonyms, let me into her world with vast autobiographical details:

Folgorata […] sono io, Monica Montanari. Sono nata a Milano nel ’61, da un[a] famiglia di origini marchigiane nell’urbinate. Ho vissuto a Pesaro, Venezia, Roma, Milano e ora nell’Appennino parmense. Ho scritto romanzi e saggi con tanti pseudonimi. […] Studi classici e laureata alla LUISS in scienze politiche. […] Sui temi della politica interna, internazionale e sanità, come pubblicista, ho scritto per giornali e riviste a stampa e, come giornalista professionista, sono stata redattore ordinario presso le testate Tg5 e Studio Aperto. Sono una rivoluzionaria che più di aver rifiutato il sistema è stata rifiutata dal sistema. :-) (Montanari)

In addition to those personal roles, Montanari is also the mostly anonymous face behind Mamma

Who’s Coming to Dinner forces the parents of the couple to question and revisit their own prejudicial views, though in A cena col vampiro, the coupling between a vampire and a mortal forces the parents of the mortal, and the mortal herself, to surrender to danger and trust since humans can, indeed, become the vampire’s dinner. 210 See “DOCkS della Bloody Roses Secret Society.” 211 Quite evidently (unless Goldrose did so with playful intent), the author who chose this pen name was unaware of the vulgar meaning of her adopted first name in British English. This appears to be another reflection of the authors’ lack of awareness of British life and customs. See pp. 233–242 for more on this. 212 Despite my best efforts, I have been unsuccessful at getting in contact with Dooley (Michaela Intermite). For this reason, I have not included any biographical information on her. Regarding De Nicolo, snippets from interviews with her appear throughout this chapter and Chapter 5.

146

Editori; she is the one responsible for its founding, she explains, after having left Mediaset “quando Berlusconi entrò in politica”:

ho fondato una casa editrice continuando a dedicarmi al giornalismo con una piccolissima testata locale mensile […], con blog e contributi vari online. Inizialmente la casa editrice si è dedicata alla saggistica in tema di immaginario religioso e poi è gradualmente passata alla narrativa realizzando nel contempo pubblicazioni conto terzi. (Montanari)

She, along with Dooley and Gaiottina, created and contributed to the fanfic universe of human Elisabeth “Liz” Campbell and vampire Ethan Rochester (né Lewis),213 with Rochester being an unabashed tribute to Charlotte Brontë’s Edward Rochester character in Jane Eyre, who, in turn, lent his name to Meyer in Meyer’s creation of Edward Cullen (Deffenbacher and Zagoria-Moffet 32–33). The direct influence of the Twilight series is not hidden; it is proudly made clear, from the name of the forum frequented by the women of the Bloody Roses Secret Society to, as Montanari explained to me, some of their adopted pen names:

Dunque alla bella età di 47 anni restai letteralmente “folgorata” dalla lettura di Twilight, mi appassionò tantissimo e cominciai a partecipare alle community forum dedicate alla saga della Meyer dove si pubblicavano fan fictions ispirate a Bella ed Edward. Adottai il nickname Folgorata. Fu in questi forum, tra l’altro, che si aggregò il gruppo delle bloody roses […]. Al momento di firmare il romanzo, aggiunsi Violet e utilizzai Folgorata come cognome.

To set the series in motion, 18-year-old Liz, who once lived in Gibraltar (RS 25), moves to Forres, Scotland, with her mother, Endora, a lady matched in eccentricity only by Renée, the mother of Twilight’s Bella: “Era eccentrica certo” (RS 27).214 Forres is a cloudy and gloomy city, which is perfect for the likes of the Rochester vampires, whose preternatural flesh shines ruby red in the sunlight, which easily gives away their supernatural ilk. Fresh out of school, Liz applies for employment at Therisoft,215 a Scottish software company with several offices around

213 Lewis is his human last name; Rochester is his adopted last name, in accordance with his vampire maker’s and clan’s last name (RS 129). 214 The members of my thesis committee, to whom I extend my gratitude, brilliantly pointed out that “Endora” is the name of the mother of Samantha Stevens, both of whom are witches, in the syndicated American sitcom Bewitched, which aired on ABC in the United States from 1964 to 1972 (O’Dell 65). In Italy, the show aired under the name Vita da strega. The name of Liz’s mother in the A cena col vampiro series is delivered with all of the negative connotations stemming from the Bewitched character, carrying with it the derision with which Endora Campbell is treated, thanks to Agnes Moorhead’s portrayal in Bewitched of “an unrepentant divorcee who […] was a total troublemaker; quite literally the mother-in-law from hell” (O’Dell 67). These connections are evident to people of a certain generation, which includes the publisher of the series and writer of two of its books, 57-year-old Folgorata/Montanari, but may go over the heads of younger readers. 215 I do not believe that it is merely a coincidence that the opening unvoiced interdental fricative matches that of Jane Eyre’s Thornfield Hall, the home of Edward Rochester. Additionally, the prefix of the creatively named

147 the world. Ethan, who runs the company, hires her, but he distances himself from her, as he is immensely attracted to her scent and must keep his distance to protect his identity and Liz’s mortal safety. The rising tension of the forbidden love is the perfect recipe for romance, and, eventually, the two become romantically involved. Over the course of the series, Liz and Ethan get married and Liz becomes a vampire at Ethan’s hands but against his wishes. He yearns for her to live out her human life so that her soul is not damned in immortality, as he believes his own soul to be. Nonetheless, her requests prevail and she is bestowed immortality by Ethan so that the couple can truly be together forever and she can enjoy the company of her deathless family until the end of time.

Of course, their happiness does have a time limit, as Ethan, in Dooley’s Raining stars, puts an abrupt and severe end to his relationship with Liz while the girl is still human; ever the martyr but also a tyrant, he separates from her as he believes that she is better off without him and that she deserves to find love with a human so that she can have children (RS 146).216 This, of course, is a perfect manifestation of the male paramour’s patriarchal superiority over his female partner, typical of romance canon, in his imposing on her what he believes she needs or deserves. Despite his supposed best intentions, the suffering of the separated couple stunts their personal growth, and they fall deeper and deeper into the abyss of their isolated miseries.

In Folgorata’s Moonlight rainbow, Liz, already made a vampire, suffers tremendously from her transformation from human to vampire, crying out in her sleep and falling into trances, leading Ethan and his family to seek a cure for vampirism by risky means: they go to Rome to meet with the ancient vampire progenitor, Lenith, or Lilith,217 the head of the Rochesters’ recently defeated

Therisoft comes from the Greek thēríon, whose genitive is thērós, meaning “‘bestia [feroce], fiera’” (Zingarelli); its Italian prefix is used in teriomorfismo, meaning “Natura animale o forma animale delle figure divine” (Zingarelli). 216 See p. 217 in Chapter 5. This is an important reason to keep Liz alive as a mortal because, in most vampire lore, vampires cannot procreate. In fact, in Rice’s Vampire Chronicles, vampires do not have sex drives and male vampires cannot get erections. The vampires in Twilight do have sex drives, but, otherwise, they live by common lore, indulging in coitus only with their own kind, which cannot ever result in offspring. Edward’s accidental impregnation of a mortal Bella, who convinces Edward to make love to her on their honeymoon, surprises the whole Cullen family. 217 Employing the figure of Lilith, apparently the first wife of the biblical Adam, as a vampire is not original to this series. For a recent example, in the HBO television series True Blood, based on the Southern Vampire Mysteries by

148 enemies, the Quirites (described in Figure 3, on page 151, which features the “scroll”218 detailing the particulars of the battle at Loch Ness between Lenith and the Rochesters).219

In comparison, the Twilight Saga features vampire Edward and human Isabella, or Bella, as the paramours. The story of their love is set primarily in Forks, Washington—with “Forks” being a close match, phonetically and orthographically, to the Scottish “Forres.” Bella, who used to live with her mother, Renée, in warm and sunny Arizona, moves to cold and gloomy Forks to live with her father, Charlie, after her mother remarries and moves to Florida with her new husband. Forks is an actual small town in the Pacific Northwest of the United States and is characterised by rainy, cloudy, melancholy weather almost year-round; this climate makes it the perfect abode for the Cullen clan of vampires, whose preternatural flesh sparkles in sunlight as though made of infinitesimal diamonds, which would alarm humans were they to behold this brilliant flesh.220

Seventeen-year-old sun-starved Bella is forced to reacclimatise in the care of her father, whom she barely knows and, thus, calls by his first name, and she attends a new school, one that is frequented by five members of the Cullen’s seven. Moody, dark, and introverted Edward is the only member of the clan who is not coupled up, and awkward, clumsy, and plain Bella is immediately entranced by the boy’s looks when she sees him enter the cafeteria with his breathtakingly beautiful vampire siblings. Their beauty is otherworldly, but these vampires, in

Harris, Lilith is depicted as “Father and Mother,” “the first, the last, the Eternal”: “The blood of Lilith. […] We are born of Lilith, who was created in God’s image. […] We swear fealty to the blood and to the Progenitor. […] Lord and Lilith, Father and Mother, protect us as we protect you. From this day until the hour of the true death […]” (Pelaia)—with the “true death” referring to a vampire’s final physical death. Furthermore, to build on the idea of a sole progenitor—a unique Father and Mother—in A cena col vampiro, Lilith is referred to as a hermaphrodite (MR 62–68, 72), with vacillations between ermafrodito (MR 62, 63, 66) and ermafrodita (MR 64, 65, 67, 68, 72) as co- referents. To preface this vacillation, the reader receives this note on MR 62: “A regnare era lei, ‘o lui’, a seconda dei punti di vista: Lenith.” 218 Though it is absurd, impractical, and completely anachronistic, even for old-fashioned vampires, to use parchment scrolls for communication in 2006, the editor of this series evidently saw it as an appropriate way to introduce the recent “Battle of Loch Ness,” itself oddly formal and archaic in name. 219 Misspellings of English toponyms and other words are common in the series. In Figure 3 (p. 151), note the misspelling of Loch in “Lock Ness.” This issue is addressed on pp. 197–199 in Chapter 5 but also in Folgorata/Montanari’s admission of lax editing for the first iteration of this experimental series (see pp. 189–190). 220 It may be worth noting that the gloomy atmosphere characteristic of many parts of Washington State also permeates the environment of the short-lived horror mystery television show Twin Peaks (1990–1991), which is also set in Washington State (McDonnell 132).

149 their forever-teenage bodies, fool humans for five or six years; they are then forced to find a new home in a different city, lest their ageless and unchanging faces and bodies begin to inspire fear and mistrust in the human community with whom the Cullens share their lives.

At school, Edward rejects Bella continually, her scent intoxicating him and putting the cover and safety of his vampire clan at risk, lest he let himself be overcome by bloodlust for this human girl. Eventually, after clumsy and naïve Bella finds herself in life-threatening situations that force Edward to yield to his reflexes to spare and even save human lives, he reveals his vampire nature to her and, to his surprise, Bella is neither repulsed nor terrified: she is afraid only of losing him. They pursue their romance and, by the end of the Saga, they become vampire husband and vampire wife and bear a vampire-human child, whom they name Renesmee after Bella’s human mother and Edward’s vampire mother.

As Raining stars replicates, Edward and Bella’s happiness faces a limitation in the second book of the Saga, New Moon: Edward, wishing to spare Bella an eternity of vampiric damnation, brutally breaks up with Bella, insisting that she is not meant to be part of his world; whereas Ethan tells Liz the truth, Edward cruelly lies to Bella to make her angry with him rather than feel morose. He disappears with his whole family, going so far as to remove every part of his existence from Bella’s life—even photographs—so that it is like he never existed.221 This way, he believes, Bella can move on, forget him, and live out her full human life with another human male—potentially Jacob Black, a member of the Quileute aboriginal tribe in Forks.222 Edward’s choice causes Bella to fall into profound misery and to live recklessly and dangerously, which leads two Cullen siblings to falsely read, with their imperfect immortal gifts, that Bella had committed suicide. In reaction to this news, Edward exposes himself to sunlight in the main piazza of Volterra, Italy, to attract the attention of the ancient vampire overseers and lawmakers,

221 Unlike in traditional vampire lore, vampires in the Twilight Saga and in Porcaccia, un vampiro! do have a reflection and show up in photographs. See, for example, the excerpt from PV 34–35 on p. 162. 222 Though I believe the name “Quirite” for the vampire tribe in A cena col vampiro to be inspired by the Quileutes in Twilight, these are not groups with parallel roles and their similarity in form is misleading: the Quileutes are protectors of humans and, in general, they are supporters and friends of “vegetarian” vampires (i.e., vampires who subsist exclusively on the flesh of non-human animals; see pp. 161–164) in Meyer’s universe; in contrast, the Quirites are the Rochesters’ enemies only.

150 the Volturi,223 so that they might put him out of his misery by execution.

223 The universe created by the A cena col vampiro writers includes vampire overseers known as the “Guardiani della Via Francigena” (MR 93). These beings fulfill a similar role to that of the Volturi in the Twilight Saga (Twilight 19) and the Benandanti of the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna: they oversee the world of their supernatural kith and kin, ensuring that the secrecy of their existence is maintained and that minimal murderous activity is committed. Additionally, the Guardiani della Via Francigena appear only “quando i Quirites hanno riempito il regno di esseri soprannaturali” (MR 93); in Twilight, however, the Quileute werewolves—and not the Volturi—exist and increase in number because vampires exist and when vampires are multiplying in their midst (New Moon 309).

151

Figure 3. Image of the “scroll” composed by Cosmo dei Caldei, a friend of the Rochesters

While the Twilight books and those following the exploits of Liz and Ethan in A cena col vampiro were penned by different authors, some plot devices in each of the books are shared (not to mention a few from Palazzolo’s Trilogia), having their source in a contemporary collective consciousness amidst the Twilight hype of the early 2000s, or, better yet, having as their fount of inspiration and creative insight a rich repository of vampire lore and legend. For instance, as

152 mentioned earlier, there are echoes of the Southern Vampire Mysteries in the role of Lenith/Lilith and also in the Ninfe dei boschi, also known as Alseidi, “a cui nessun [vampiro] può resistere” (MR 55). The Alseidi bear a striking resemblance to Harris’s writing of Sookie Stackhouse’s fae heritage: her fae blood is a key element of what makes her irresistible to bloodsuckers.

Also, the concept of diverse clans who come together to support a main “hero” clan in Moonlight rainbow is an echo of the coming together of vampire clans in Meyer’s Eclipse to support Bella and the Cullens, as Bella’s safety is under threat by the vengeful vampire Victoria. The parallel in Moonlight rainbow is present in the Quirites’ outrage that Liz was made a vampire at all, based on their fear of an ancient prophecy about “la figlia di Zoroastro, la sposa vampiro dagli occhi pregni di Olio di Media” (MR 4). The face-off of powers alluded to in the parchment letter (and on MR 70) between the Rochesters and Quirites, good and evil, mirrors meetings between the Cullens and Volturi in the Twilight Saga. In both cases, this clash of powers puts the “good guys” at a significant disadvantage. Nonetheless, these series both have a happy ending, wherein the vampire man and vampire woman live happily (for)ever after, supported by their families and made stronger only by the challenges they have overcome.

1.2 Ludovico the Vampire and Andrea the Human Live Happily Ever After: the Plot of Porcaccia, un vampiro!

The plot description of book 5 of the A cena col vampiro series, on the rear of the book, initially places the story in decidedly banal territory:

Pasta al burro a fine mese. Una città hard rock come Bari. La faida dello zerbino con la famiglia del secondo piano. Andrea “Cespuglio” Magli è uno studente con la sindrome del criceto. Ludovico, dark e fascinoso, sembrerebbe l’ideale per toglierlo dalla gabbia, se non fosse un vampiro pericolosamente bisex e per giunta nel mirino del racket.

The bisexuality of the vampire is not particularly surprising, given the “freer” sexual nature of the vampire in preceding and contemporary undead literature (notably including Rice’s sexually fluid vampires, though they cannot have sex) and the vampire’s established imagery of living at the fringes or in the shadows of human society in popular culture; the inclusion of this book, however, in a mostly conventional series (by paranormal-romance standards) is impressive, not to mention the inclusion of a male protagonist in a series dominated by and written from the point of view of women. Nevertheless, as we will discover below, the female authorship of this

153 romance between two men is not unusual at all.

In Porcaccia, un vampiro!, we are dealing with males only: a male protagonist and a male paramour surrounded by male roommates, with a complementary but less important cast of women including Andrea’s mother and a few female classmates. Nonetheless, I believe that this book, written by a woman and featuring romance between two men, falls under the influence of slash fiction, the name of which comes from “‘K/S’ [kay slash ess] or ‘Kirk/Spock’ fiction based on Star Trek” (Duffett 299); that is, slash is “a prominent fanfic genre that usually puts the two main male characters from [a] series into a homoerotic relationship” (Duffett 172).224 Still, Elizabeth Woledge underlines that such a relationship is not purely sexual: “rather than pornography, slash is about explicit intimacy” (qtd. in Duffett 172; emphasis added). The men involved usually start as friends or colleagues and a “shift” occurs in their dynamic that has them move “from homosocial friendship to homosexual desire through predictable plot steps” (172). As the original James T. Kirk and Spock come from different planets, the analogy elegantly adapts to the undead romance featuring relationships between mortal and immortal characters, thus “help[ing] fans work through questions of otherness” (172).225 As we have seen in the authorship of Porcaccia, an important trait to underline in slash fiction is that women are typically the creators of these stories, and in them they “marginalize female characters and bring ‘female’ pleasures into focus instead through the portrayal of male characters” (173; emphasis in original). I explore the question of intimacy between Ludovico and Andrea in detail in the section on the depiction of sex in A cena col vampiro in Chapter 5.226

Foreshadowing this intimacy, the series’ introduction in Porcaccia contains a self-aware note at its end,227 indicating the special place that this book occupies; furthermore, the note subtly points to its intention to expand on the current heteronormative trends and to span the range of sweet romance, luscious passion, and crude violence:228 “Nel caso di questo libro in particolare, con

224 Duffett provides this definition of slash in the glossary of his book: “a form of fiction created by fans that takes pairs of same-sex (usually male) characters who are portrayed as heterosexual in their film and TV shows and then charts how they negotiate intimate relationships with each other” (299). 225 See also Jenkins 203. 226 See pp. 219–222. 227 See p. 140 in this chapter for the full introduction included on the second page of all of the books. 228 Again, see p. 140, from which the reference to Carmilla is absent; this final sentence is unique to Porcaccia.

154 sorriso a fior di labbra, il vampiro è metafora sulle tracce di Carmilla” (PV 2). The vampire, however, is not so much a metaphor as he is a real vampire, but the tongue-in-cheek juxtaposition with Carmilla by Sheridan Le Fanu229 is meaningful because this story ends in a potentially happily-(for)ever-after between two men, one of whom is a vampire.

The first of these men is Andrea “Cespuglio” Magli, a 24-year-old university student in Bari (PV 6), suffering, as youth do, from the sindrome del criceto—doing the same activities, mindlessly, over and over with no satisfaction or sense of purpose. It is a flawless backdrop to allow for someone to swoop in to stir things up. In Porcaccia, this someone is Ludovico the vampire. From the outset, it is fairly clear that the style of romance differs from Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars: the story bears an irreverent title,230 with a light curse in porcaccia231—which, it bears mentioning, is not what Andrea blurts out when Ludovico catches him unawares in his kitchen: «Che porcocazzo fai qua?»232 (PV 7). Accordingly, a heavier, vulgar curse word, cazzo, appears right on the front cover, not as a subtitle but part of a colloquially-worded blurb:

229 Carmilla, a novella published by Le Fanu in 1872, presents the story of a youthful vampire, Carmilla, who befriends and bewitches an adolescent girl, Laura, whose family hosts Carmilla while the vampire’s alleged mother heads on a business trip. Laura’s father believes happening upon Carmilla to be a wonderful opportunity: Laura, an only child, has no close female friends and is, thus, very open to Carmilla’s companionship. Carmilla’s exuberance, however, strikes Laura as peculiar, especially when Carmilla begins making advances on her that cross the line between friendship and courtship, resulting in Laura’s confusion and anger at the taboo affection and causing her to doubt her own virtue and affections. 230 It also bears a subtitle in parentheses: (fralezza). (In the book’s republication as Echi di sangue, the subtitle remains.) While I believed it to be superfluous, I imagined it could point to the inherent imbalance of power in the relationship between a vampire and a human, which, in turn, points to the undeniable fragility of the human in his or her mortality. The author indicated the context of this word in her correspondence with me: La parola fralezza appare nel testo, pronunciata da Andrea. [“La mia fralezza. La mia piaga infetta. La mia faccia bagnata. In quel momento crollai.” (PV 118)] E’ un termine desueto e poetico, e secondo il mio editore esprime benissimo l’animo di Andrea e il senso del libro in generale, ecco perché ha voluto usarla come sottotitolo. E’ un sinonimo di “fragilità” ma tecnicamente è la fragilità delle ferite ancora aperte, quelle coperte da una crosta sottile. (“Porcaccia, un vampiro”) 231 In the words of the author herself, who, remarkably, found me on an online language forum, “[…] è difficile tradurre il titolo. Io direi: Holy Moley, a vampire! […] ‘Porcaccia’ è una esclamazione non volgare, come ‘Porca miseria’ o ‘mannaggia’” (“Porcaccia, un vampiro”). Additionally, she clarified that she would translate porcaccia “col generico ‘damn!’ ma perde la sfumatura colorita e divertente […]” (“porcaccia”). Finally, see Laura Rizzo’s interview with De Nicolo for more on the choice of Porcaccia over other more appropriate curse words to use when caught unawares by a vampire. 232 We did not have this issue in the discussion of Mirta-Luna, as the formatting style omits quotation marks. For the sake of simplicity and aesthetics, dialogue from these novels will be cited without enclosing quotation marks; only the angled brackets from the source text will be used. All other excerpts from the texts will be indicated in the usual way, unless narration and dialogue coexist in an excerpt, in which case the less-desired “«…»” will be used.

155

Lo udii uscire dalla stanza ed entrare in cucina. Aprì il frigo. Cazzo vuole dal mio frigo? Assassinarmi a colpi di broccoli? Ammazzarmi a cotolettate?

Indeed, these five opening lines set the tone for the whole novel, a 154-page homodiegetic narration recounted from the point of view of Andrea. His diaristic narrative is colloquial and evokes the tones, cadence, and unpretentiousness of a conversation with a close friend. As can be seen in the following excerpt, the reader is addressed directly with tu, and De Nicolo creates a character who is aware of his role as story-teller; at the end of the excerpt, he underlines his introduction as a premessa, or foreword, and explicitly states when he will begin to tell the story. De Nicolo lightly taps the fourth wall in this way,233 and in having Andrea narrate, she hints at his surviving the events that would come to pass:234

Le minacce sono inutili. Ti racconterò tutto, se ci tieni, ma forse dopo non ne sarai molto contento. Ad ogni modo, ricorda che la scelta è tua. Mi stai guardando, in attesa, e non vuoi che percepisca la tua ansia. È una questione di potere, giusto? Ultimamente ho imparato qualcosina sull’argomento, già che ci siamo ti metterò a parte anche di questo. Stai tranquillo, non offenderò la tua intelligenza sventolandoti la mia oggettività perché entrambi sappiamo che è una stronzata immane. Non proverò a mettermi sotto la luce migliore, questo sì, questo posso promettertelo. […] Ho qualche difficoltà a iniziare, sai? […] Tutto per dire che non capisco se un fatto è la causa di qualcosa, se ne è la conseguenza oppure sta lì senza portare da nessuna parte. Una sega mentale, direbbe il mio amico Loris. (PV 5)

And then, continuing on the very same line, he begins: “Fatta la premessa, sceglierò un momento X. Vediamo. Una domenica sera di metà novembre, alle otto con un freddo umido buono solo per muschi e licheni […]” (PV 6).

“Le minacce sono inutili,” he declares. Why would it be necessary to make such a dramatic

233 De Nicolo breaks the fourth wall metanarratively by indicating, on four occasions, a “NdA,” or “Nota dell’autrice,” at the foot of the page. The first is on PV 14: “(NdA) Il ‘sedadavo’ e il riferimento a frau Blücher provengono ovviamente da Frankenstein Jr, diretto da Mel Brooks, uno dei film più geniali della storia dell’umanità. Se c’è ancora qualcuno che non lo ha visto, deve.” It is remarkable that she rescinds her hidden role as author of fiction by insisting in writing that some of the references refer to real works of fiction or other sources that correspond to real-world facts. On PV 62, she includes “non me la sono inventata,” as though to protect herself from ridicule in this safe space of mutually accepted suspended disbelief; and on PV 68, she proclaims that “[s]ono verità storica le leggi contro il vampirismo promulgate dall’imperatrice Maria Teresa d’Asburgo.” Still, she does not insist that Bari or Krujë are real places, as the realness of these locales is perhaps an experienced reality of the reader. 234 That is, barring the possibility that he dies in the book and someone else recounts a part of the book. This, however, is not the case.

156 statement regarding the vanity of threats? The reader discovers this only toward the end of the story: Andrea’s interlocutor is not just the reader of this book object; the interlocutor, the listener, the reader of the exploits of “Cespuglio” is a police officer, a carabiniere. “Le minacce sono inutili” reflects the carabiniere’s insistence via threats on knowing why Andrea had dealings with Ludovico, the vampire whose financial earnings were tightly connected to the Russian racket. This diaristic recounting, then, is so detailed because it forms part of the evidence provided to the police and also part of the version of the events that came to pass—the frappè, as Andrea calls it—that he shares with his friends, except the reader is left wondering how much, exactly, is true, thanks to this whimsical suggestion by the narrator on PV 129:

Queste sono le cose che ti direi, se potessi e volessi raccontarti la verità. La mia interpretazione della verità, ma non è il caso di fare sofismi, adesso che sono seduto tra te e quest’altro tipo. Non fraintendermi, non è che non creda nel valore delle parole. È vero, talvolta nascondono insidie, ma tal altre possono salvarti la vita. Il fatto è che vi ho guardato le mani, a te e a lui. Tu porti la fede, magari hai anche dei figli. […] Lui invece mi incute timore perché ha mani grandi come pale meccaniche […] [e] la postura di un cobra reale […]. Vorrei proprio vedervi ascoltare con olimpica serenità la mia storia da delirium tremens. No no. Questa è una di quelle circostanze in cui la sincerità è una virtù inutile e dannosa.

Perhaps all of those minute details about his life as a student, his visits with his mother, his adventures and dangers shared with Ludovico are not the full truth, but the implication seems to be that the real truth is stranger than fiction. Andrea appears to indicate that what he provided to the carabinieri is a toned-down version of the facts, as he doubts their ability to believe his “storia da delirium tremens”—or, perhaps, merely their ability to listen with “olimpica serenità.” Indeed, he alludes to a few versions of the same story, differentiating between varieties of his frappè that depend on his interlocutors. Something bitter is destined for the Carabinieri: “Che [i Carabinieri] abbiano bevuto o no il mio agro frappè di verità e panzane, tre ore dopo suono al citofono di casa” (PV 135); to his friends, however, he tells a “partially skimmed” version, leaving out some detail in order to protect them or spare them further suffering: “Ai ragazzi ho raccontato la versione parzialmente scremata del frappè. Mi sarebbe piaciuto potermi sfogare almeno con loro, ma tra il mio sollievo e la loro sicurezza non c’è storia” (138).

It is outside the scope of this thesis to examine Andrea’s reason for telling his story at all, if it causes the reader to question his preceding narration, but I believe that the purpose could reside in protecting the privacy and safety of both Ludovico and Andrea, who have run away together, seeking to escape from the law, though “nessuno può scappare in eterno” (PV 154). In the last 25 pages of the book, Andrea speaks in the present and present perfect, an indication that he is

157 describing how things actually are, and he professes his love to Ludovico. I maintain that, in the present, Andrea has actually composed this log of events and leaves this document, this literal diaristic specimen, to be found by the carabinieri in his and Ludovico’s wake after they have fled. It is a sneaky act of victory, a way to taunt the men who had a hand in torturing the vampire and who so desperately wished to interrogate Ludovico about his dealings with the Russian mob and who might ultimately hand him over to untrustworthy authorities.

1.3 Classifying the Books of A cena col vampiro: Horror, Romance, a Blend of the Two—or None of the Above?

This discussion of genre classification, initiated in earlier chapters in this thesis, involved looking at the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna very carefully from different angles, considering contemporaries and predecessors in Italian- and English-speaking worlds. That trilogy, not a form of fan fiction and dissimilar from other works, contemporary or antecedent, was established as a work of young-adult horror-romance, and in particular, a young-adult undead-romance, skirting the fringes of chick-lit and teen-lit in some instances.235

The A cena col vampiro books studied in this chapter, specifically Moonlight rainbow by Folgorata and Raining stars by Dooley, do not bring up such depth of discussion with regard to genre classification: they are completely and proudly works of undead-romance fan fiction, with a target audience shared by the Twilight Saga and the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna, that is, young- adult females. While the vampires in these books do, indeed, subsist on the blood of mammals, horror is secondary, if not completely absent in these books; the emphasis, instead, is placed on the devotion to one another shared by Liz and Ethan (and their agony in each other’s absence); the determination of the Rochester clan to protect and look out for one another; the interdependent relationships within the extended Rochester clan; and interactions with other vampires and supernatural creatures. The focal points of these works are romance, mutual protection, and loyalty, rather than violence, gore, or bloodlust.

Though De Nicolo’s text does not truly appear to be fanfic, despite its initial inclusion in a series that is manifestly fiction created by (and for) fans of Twilight, the nod to Carmilla in the

235 See classification conclusions on p. 36 in Chapter 1.

158 introduction to the text sets the tone immediately. Still, it does not take characters directly from Le Fanu’s text and its plot is separate and modern; nonetheless, the reluctance of Andrea and even his outright homophobia are reflections of Laura’s distaste for Carmilla’s advances, but, in Porcaccia, Andrea finally cedes to his love for and attraction to the vampire. Additionally, I believe that the dramatic tensions that arise in the Twilight Saga between Bella and her alternate paramours, Edward and Jacob, may have fanned the flames of the undiscovered or hidden passions between any combination of these three individuals, leaving readers dissatisfied and curious for more. This allowed erotic Twilight fan fiction like that of Fifty Shades of Grey by James to flourish, wherein Edward and Bella are recast as Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele, who engage in intense and graphic sexual acts. But, arguably, this also led to an increase in vampire slash writings in general,236 and slash is, indeed, the subcategory of young-adult undead romance under which I would place Porcaccia.

Initially, the story does not read like a romance, but it contains many of the necessary ingredients:237 there is an unspoken indication on Andrea’s part of a desire for something greater or different underlying his suffering of the sindrome del criceto. The reader sees this private desire progress subtly and develop into romance, though Andrea continually and violently denies his impulses and his own heart. Nevertheless, since the story is written retrospectively, from an existence where Andrea is familiar with Ludovico and the vampire’s dealings with the racket, he reflects on his former life and his appreciation for normalcy, the “tranquillo e piatto tran tran di mera sopravvivenza” (PV 14): “Vabbè, la mia gabbia da criceto non era malaccio, valutai. Certamente qualcuno avrebbe trovato asfissiante quella routine, ma non io. Io non sapevo che farmene di picchi adrenalinici e una vita incolore mi andava benissimo” (14). This statement is followed by a professed awareness of what would follow, an indication that the supernatural would disrupt Andrea’s day-to-day life, forever changing the uninspiring but adored normalcy of the protagonist’s existence: “Ma forse lo pensai così forte e chiaro da arrivare ai timpani di un qualche genio della lampada alla rovescia, abituato a presentarsi senza invito e per di più dotato di un senso dell’umorismo a dir poco malato” (14).

236 See pp. 152–153. 237 See Chapter 1.

159

Despite his stated contentment with the “tran tran” of his former life, he later follows Ludovico’s cryptic instructions communicated via text message (“AIUTAMI KRUJE” [PV 86]) to locate and help the vampire in Krujë, Albania. Once there, he finds himself having doubts about their survival, but he remains at Ludovico’s side, without a means to escape, lovingly tending to the vampire’s torture wounds (97–98). Finally, after repeatedly rebuffing Ludovico rudely and mercilessly, Andrea confesses his long-denied love for this preternatural being and begs him not to abandon him—but he begins in a most unromantic way, which adds to the wonderful unconventionality of this romantic narrative and characterises the awkward mannerisms of the inexperienced young male:

[…] «Sta’ un po’ fermo, Nureyev.238 Lo so che le mani addosso può mettertele solo chi ti considera un mostro oppure un bel pezzo di carne da fottere, ma da adesso tu finisci di farti del male, dovessi sedarti a legnate. È chiaro?» Ludovico è incredulo, disarmato, fragilissimo, e sorrido. «Quello che cerco di dirti, brutto zuccone, è che al solo pensiero di non vederti più mi si è aperta una voragine qua» spiego,239 toccandomi sulla zona d’interregno tra stomaco e cuore. Arriccia la bocca e fa: «Gastrite?» Sbuffo l’aria fuori dalle narici. «Ludovì, adesso ti strappo le palle.» «Cos’altro vuoi?» «Voglio stare con te, deficiente! […]» (151–152)

De Nicolo presents her innovative take on the contemporary romance novel, creating a love story not just between two males but between a weakened vampire and an overconfident, careless, underexperienced, but physically superior young man—at least as the dynamic is at the end of

238 This antonomasia can have several sources of inspiration: the sexuality of this ballerina dancer; his physical traits, which may resemble those of Ludovico; or Ludovico’s consistent movement, perhaps lithe or elegant in nature, away from Andrea, as he attempts to evade his grasp. 239 Andrea’s decidedly more confident and slightly more abrasive delivery aside, this is reminiscent of Bella’s fears that she communicates to Edward upon his confirmation of his vampirism: “I was afraid… because, for, well, obvious reasons, I can’t stay with you. And I’m afraid that I’d like to stay with you, much more than I should.” I looked down at his hands as I spoke. It was difficult for me to say this aloud. “Yes,” he agreed slowly. “That is something to be afraid of, indeed. Wanting to be with me. That’s really not in your best interest.” I frowned. “I should have left long ago,” he sighed. “I should leave now. But I don’t know if I can.” “I don’t want you to leave,” I mumbled pathetically, staring down again. (Twilight 266) “You already know how I feel, of course,” I finally said. “I’m here… which, roughly translated, means I would rather die than stay away from you.” I frowned. “I’m an idiot.” “You are an idiot,” he agreed with a laugh. Our eyes met, and I laughed, too. We laughed together at the idiocy and sheer impossibility of such a moment. “And so the lion fell in love with the lamb…,” he murmured. “What a stupid lamb,” I sighed. “What a sick, masochistic lion.” (274)

160 the novel, with Ludovico healing from extreme torture but, of course, not mortally wounded. Indeed, the superior figure—who, in the case of the undead romance, is the vampire—is made inferior and vulnerable by his physical ailments, and he is rejected by Andrea on numerous occasions, thus undoing or reversing the imbalance of heteronormative roles in traditional paranormal romance novels: Andrea, the human, has all the power. Ludovico, meanwhile, requires the aid and support of the usually physiologically inferior human male, whom the reader might assume will aid the vampire by means of his own blood (as on PV 122). De Nicolo effectively transforms the relationship between the two men, though she never has Andrea abandon his trademark crude wit and his essential caring nature. He finally reciprocates the love indirectly professed by Ludovico earlier in the novel (PV 72), with incredulous Ludovico believing that Andrea is being facetious: «[…] Non lo so quando è successo. So che sei la creatura più bella che abbia mai conosciuto e so che non voglio perderti.» Allargo le dita, sollevo la mano e gli accarezzo la guancia e il livido sullo zigomo. […] «Andrea, non ho tempo per le sciocchezze, quindi cessa questa scena rivoltante e togliti di mezzo.» Seguo coi polpastrelli la linea del suo mento, scendo lungo il collo e torno a sfiorargli il viso, scostandogli i capelli. […] «Che la situazione sia incasinata l’ho ampiamente capito, ma in qualche modo faremo. Magari mi ripeti come funziona la vampirizzazione.» «Andrea, ti prego» dice con la faccia ancora girata. «Non sai di che parli.» […] «Voglio aver cura di te.» Adesso è costretto a guardarmi. Quasi mi ci perdo, nel nero lucido dei suoi occhi, e sorrido ancora, perché sto tremando e non me ne vergogno. Desiderio e paura. Mi avvolge la nuca con una mano, si accosta lentissimo e mi sfiora col più delicato dei baci. «Non andartene» gli soffio sulle labbra. Mi tiene così, mentre poggia la fronte contro la mia e chiude gli occhi. (152–153)

In summary, De Nicolo’s exploration of Andrea and Ludovico’s romance is almost completely devoid of horror elements, save for torture and capture scenes in the middle and at the end of the novel. Despite its “unorthodox” plot amidst so-called pure romances, which feature traditionally heterosexual pairings only and avoid crude and vulgar terms to denote sexuality, Porcaccia fits perfectly in the undead-romance subgenre with its colourings of slash fiction and teen-lit, too, as I will explore in the section on giovanilese in Chapter 5.240 The classification of this novel is bracketed cleanly by key moments at the beginning and end of the novel, corresponding, respectively, to horror and to romance: on PV 20, Andrea witnesses Ludovico the vampire biting

240 See pp. 206–213.

161 a man’s neck, with “rivoli rossi che gli colavano dalla bocca,” and Andrea manages to convince this murderer to spare his youthful existence; at the very end of the novel, Andrea and Ludovico run away together, an epic explosion in their wake, intending to flee for as long as time will allow them to explore their love—potentially “fino alla fine del tempo,” to echo Mirta-Luna’s evocative turn of phrase.

1.4 Romance Clichés in A cena col vampiro and the Series’ Undead- Romance Predecessors

Liz and Ethan, timeless lovers even when Liz is still human, have their fates written by Meyer, the mother of their literary progenitors, but it is Folgorata and Dooley (and other members of the Bloody Roses Secret Society) who bring them to life. To do so, they fulfilled these characters’ destinies by placing them within a framework dictated and established by centuries of romance formulae and clichés. Trite though these features may be, they lend a recognisable form to this novel subgenre, allowing it to fit in with its predecessors and provide a welcoming serial model to fans (of romance and of romance subgenres), new readers, and imitators. In this section, I will enumerate and introduce a few of these clichés and recurring themes, examining a few in detail when they bear greater attention; most, however, speak for themselves.

A remarkable recurring theme in Moonlight rainbow, in addition to that of an insistence on the eyes of the vampires,241 is that of underlining, so to speak, the wrinkles on the faces of otherwise ageless and immortal vampires. In Folgorata’s romantic universe of vampires who abstain from feeding on or killing humans (ironically called “vegetarians” by Meyer in Twilight; see below for more on this), interestingly, to maintain the vampire’s appearance of youth and eternal beauty, a life free of violent cruelty to humans must be followed. Thus, when two of the Valacchi, Dracula242 and Sofia, are first encountered, their lined faces are included in their otherwise flawless physical descriptions: “La pelle avvizzita di Dracula e di Sofia era la prova delle crudeltà commesse in passato. La più celebre efferatezza delle quali rimaneva innegabilmente l’abitudine di tenere le prede umane agonizzanti, ma ancor vive, infilate su pali di legno” (MR

241 See section 2.1 on pp. 173–177. 242 See p. 228 for a proper introduction to this metaliterary character.

162

93).243 Credit is then given to the Rochesters for having introduced Dracula and Sofia to their cruelty-free way of living: “[S]ia lei sia Dracula erano umiliati dal ricordo del passato. Quanto almeno erano riconoscenti ai Rochester per averli accolti nella loro cerchia” (93). This motif reappears later when the reader is introduced to the tertiary characters of Nept, Venus, and Luna:244 “Perché il volto giovane di Nept mostrava nuove rughe? […] Di che crimini si era macchiato l’Errante per esser tanto cambiato d’aspetto?” (100). An emphasis on aesthetic beauty exists in this book, notably in recognising that vampires age physically with the evils they commit. Though wrinkles harm no one, they are feared and despised for their implication of old age, which, in turn, can entail weakness and faded or nonexistent beauty. Indeed, a major part of the appeal of vampirism to mortals is the eternal youth; the fact that vampires who commit evils become irrevocably marked has a particular appeal to the stereotyped woman featured in chick- lit novels who are “in pena (ma non troppo) per il proprio aspetto fisico” (Ricci 310).245

De Nicolo incorporates this vampiric diet into her vampire’s habits, too, an idea that is certainly befitting of the young-adult paranormal romance: the human paramour is attracted by a dark mysteriousness in his or her love interest, but the idea of a murderous past or potential homicidal affinities is, well, a definite turn-off. Thus, De Nicolo indicates that there is some nobility to Ludovico’s diet, which Ludovico explains to Andrea in a soliloquy detailing the different facets of his vampirism, especially in contrast with traits associated with classic horror tropes:

Posso trasformare un essere umano in un vampiro dissanguandolo e facendogli bere il mio sangue. Non dormo in una bara, non volo, non mi trasformo in un animale, non sono un telepate né ho capacità paranormali di alcun tipo. […] [P]rovo dolore e piacere come chiunque, mi rifletto negli specchi, sono più forte ed agile di un uomo comune […] ma sono tutt’altro che invincibile e contro una squadra armata e organizzata non ho scampo. Mi è indispensabile nutrirmi ogni quattro giorni. […] Se arresto l’emorragia, le mie ferite guariscono completamente. Non sono immortale, sono cristallizzato in un presente che tre cose possono infrangere all’istante, la luce del sole, il fuoco e una punta che mi trapassi il cuore, nel qual caso non devi affannarti con paletti di frassino o punte d’argento, una pallottola o un coltello da cucina serviranno egregiamente allo scopo.» Afferrò la mia mano e se l’appoggiò sul petto. Il cuore batteva solo un po’ accelerato. «Senti? Proprio qui.» (PV 34–35)

It may not be a customary romantic diatribe, but it is in perfect accordance with romance roles:

243 It is not Bram Stoker’s Dracula who makes this cameo in Folgorata’s novel but, in fact, the historical figure of Vlad the Impaler, or Vlad Dracula. 244 Coincidentally, the name of this insignificant character is shared with Mirta Fossati’s adopted name, Luna. 245 See pp. 32–34 in Chapter 1.

163 as when one partner confesses his or her love to the other, thus making him- or herself vulnerable to be accepted or rejected by the other, Ludovico makes himself completely vulnerable, emotionally and mortally, to Andrea.246 He does not confess his love yet, but he demonstrates his trust for Andrea and his interest in him, betrayed by his own palpitating heart.247 In these post- sunset interactions with Ludovico the vampire, Andrea is able to deduce that “le fesserie da romanzo gotico [erano] vere” (31).248

The most recent and perhaps most famous example of “vegetarian vampires” can be found in Meyer’s Cullen clan, as mentioned above, who comprise one of only two clans in Meyer’s universe that abstain from feeding on and killing humans (Twilight 187–188). Nonetheless, this concept was not invented by Meyer; it is not news to vampires that not just the blood of humans satiates vampiric thirst: Rice’s Louis, in Interview with the Vampire, goes through a phase in which he feeds on chickens in order to avoid taking human life (Rice 42). Furthermore, when Rice’s noble vampires, including the ne’er-do-well Lestat de Lioncourt, must take human life, they often seek out the evildoer, refraining from taking innocent life whenever possible (the child Claudia, of course, being a grand exception…). In Harris’s Southern Vampire Mysteries, vampires feel free to “come out of the coffin” once the Japanese figure out how to synthesise human blood, thus allowing vampires to live ethically by skipping the “middle man” and going straight to the (synthetic) source to fulfill their nutritional requirements. Finally, even Smith’s Vampire Diaries features many benevolent vampires who, while certainly not perfect, drink from blood bags of donated blood (illicitly, as vampires are not “out of the coffin” in this series) or take tiny sips of blood from humans, willing or otherwise.

Joining this club of illustrious and benevolent vampires are the Rochesters, modelled on the Cullens, as they explicitly use the whimsical “vegetariani” as the descriptor for their diet, while others merely explain that they eschew human blood by selecting the blood of non-human animals as a benign alternative. They are reluctant “vegetarians”—as many humans truly are. “Vampiri…” Liz begins in Moonlight rainbow, “Questo erano tutti i Rochester anche se di una specie specialissima che si rifiutava di uccidere gli esseri umani” (MR 9).

246 See Twilight 260–274 for an equivalent confession in the Twilight Saga. 247 In contrast, the hearts of the vampires in the Rochesters’ universe—and the Cullens’—do not beat. 248 This is an echo of Mirta’s prejudices against the genre in Mirta-Luna; see pp. 38–39 in Chapter 2.

164

They live a virtuous undead life, seeking to do minimal harm, as their values supercede their instincts and desires; still, however deeply rooted it may be in the vampire’s moral code, the blood of non-human animals always remains the second choice, as nothing compares to the taste of human blood: “Aveva riferito della loro ‘dieta’, Ethan non ne sembrava troppo convinto, come non lo era di nulla, del resto; ma accettava la cosa” (RS 69). For the tortured souls—one might even call them the “vegans” amongst vampires—taking the lives of animals does not wipe their slate clean:249 their past ills cannot be undone (as the lines on the faces of the Valacchi indicate), and their mere existence is believed to be sinful, a cause of personal shame and guilt: “Per [Ethan], il fatto di non uccidere umani non significava divenire meno ‘colpevoli’. […] Per lui, il solo fatto di essere vampiri implicava il peso di essere una sorta di demoni, a prescindere dai comportamenti” (RS 69). In summary, while the vegetarian Cullens are indubitably the inspiration for the Rochesters’ eating habits, I maintain that Rice’s life-worshiping vampires, even indirectly, were a key influence for Folgorata and Dooley: Ethan writes in his diary that he was specifically instructed by Zachary, his vampire maker, not to be “vegetarian,” but to do the “meno male possibile. Evitare per esempio di spegnere vite innocenti” (RS 66). Therefore, as Louis and Lestat had done before him, Ethan, during the “anni di accudimento paterno di Zachary[,] […] si lanciava di nascosto nelle notti del porto di Londra in cerca di malfattori… Che lo facessero sentire meno in colpa ma che, anche, placassero la sua sete” (MR 37).

This vegetarianism is one trait that is consistent across the board in the undead-romance landscape (with the exception of zombie romances) and specifically in this series: all of A cena col vampiro’s undead compassionately choose non-human animals over humans. This includes Ludovico Spinola, as mentioned earlier, who defends a recent human killing to an accusatory and fright-filled Andrea in the first excerpt; in the second, he expresses that it is not just a humane choice but a logical one to select animals over humans:

«Tu fai… quelle cose che… uccidono» obiettai con una perifrasi carpiata. «Se non ho alternative.» «E quando ce l’hai, l’alternativa?» insistetti.

249 Actually, Wright’s brilliant article on the politics and ethics of drinking human blood refutes this possible use of the term “vegan” to describe those vampires who continue to drink the blood of non-human animals whilst still feeling guilty about the act. Wright applies the label to those vampires in Harris’s universe who consume TruBlood, the nutritionally-complete synthetic blood beverage that precludes their need to feed on living creatures, thereby allowing them to coexist with humans without threatening human or vampire safety (Wright 357).

165

«Scelgo il sangue di un animale.» (PV 30) «Ti ripeto che, salvo rare eccezioni e per estrema necessità, preferisco un animale a un essere umano. Seminare cadaveri non è divertente né salutare.» (64)

Another recurring trope within all three of these books is that of the human protagonist’s physical inferiority and fragility in comparison with the vampire paramour’s superhuman strength and immortality. This concept gets flipped on its head in the final scenes of Porcaccia, as we saw, wherein Ludovico is tortured and moribund but has a wounded yet still thriving human Andrea taking care of him. In Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars, Liz’s repetitive succumbing to Ethan’s force, power, and choices, though he does not mentally manipulate her, is another manifestation of her comparative weakness and the exertion of his patriarchal will. I expand on these iconic and essential romance clichés in the next pages.

In a romance sequence (MR 98–100) that recalls a classic scene in Twilight, wherein Edward takes Bella for a terrifying piggyback ride from tree limb to tree limb through the forest as a demonstration of his preternatural physical aptitude, Ethan imposes his domination over Liz, telling her, «Fai come ti dico» after asking her to give him her hand. «Ma Ethan…» she objects; still, he insists: “[I]l tono di Ethan era perentorio.” Despite his intensity, Liz appreciates his insistence and his dominion over her and is even bemused: “Lasciando che un risolino le sfuggisse dalle labbra, Liz si lasciò cingere per la vita. Non si era ancora ben preparata, che Ethan si era già lanciato nella foresta” (MR 98). After he deposits her on a rock by a lake, his entrancing “full lips” command her to wait for him; once again, Liz meekly, vainly objects:

«Ma Ethan…» «Ho detto, aspettami qui» ripeterono le labbra carnose di Ethan. Da quanto tempo non lo vedeva così felice! Le pareva un secolo. […] Fino alla settimana prima, l’amore era avvelenato dai sensi di colpa… Adesso la accudiva come se Liz fosse la cosa più preziosa della Terra… (MR 99).

He has a strange way of showing his care, or she has a naïve way of viewing it. This is not a departure from the trends of Twilight, which has been the target of criticism and controversy (Erzen 17–20), given the corrupted view of heterosexual romance that it offers young women, namely in the form of an overprotective and possessive older man who stalks the girl, watches her sleep, and questions her ability to exist safely in the world without his input or help (Erzen 18). But while Liz puts her vampiric lover on a pedestal and excuses his overprotective, controlling behaviour, Ethan, too, worships Liz; he holds her in extremely high regard—another

166 romance trope that beguiles the (young) female reader, who wishes, too, to warrant and win the attention of her love interest the way Liz does. On RS 147–149, Ethan fantasises about marrying Liz,250 and he imagines her as the “regina della festa,” his “angelo bianco al [suo] fianco” (RS 147).

I would like to spend a moment contrasting this last image that places the paramour on a pedestal so high as to make him or her unattainably heavenly and angelic. In Ethan’s mind, Liz is the epitome of perfection: young, unadulterated, kind, and innocent—and she is naïve enough to allow him to influence her. She is a symbol of purity that he abandons and runs from, in Raining stars, lest he corrupt her irrevocably and cause her eternal damnation. After having left her, he falls into a reverie wherein he imagines what their first night spent together would be like, that is, their first moments of physical intimacy. It is still more explicit than such scenes in Twilight, but since the imaginings arise in the mind of the superior male and do not reflect a lived reality, they could, thus, be as extravagantly racy as Ethan’s mind would like. Nevertheless, his own imagination exhibits respect, decency, and relative modesty, leaving the girl’s innocence and modesty unmarred.251

In contrast, in Porcaccia, un vampiro!, Andrea calls Ludovico his “angelo nero cui avevano strappato le ali” (PV 117), thereby acknowledging the dark side of his lover, who had murdered humans in the past (and had done so in front of Andrea, out of necessity [PV 20]). Nevertheless, in identifying him with an additional supernatural label, he epitomises his paramour’s perfection and sets Ludovico apart from him, yet the vampire’s darkness and winglessness lower the pedestal’s height—or remove it altogether. Ludovico’s power and beauty are tainted by darkness and death, and, unlike Liz, who is a temporarily mortal angelic counterpart in this series, Ludovico is not innocent and pure; rather, he is edgily beautiful (“tall, dark, and handsome” is not a cliché for nothing), literally more approachable (since he is an angel stripped of the gift of flight), and vulnerable.

The contrasting imageries of light and dark angels in these books underline De Nicolo’s unique

250 A reminder regarding the ordering of the events in the plot: the story narrated in Raining stars is essentially a prequel to that in Moonlight rainbow, though the latter is book 1 in the series. In Moonlight rainbow, Liz and Ethan are already married and are both vampires. 251 See section 3.3 in Chapter 5 (pp. 214–222) for excerpts of these intimate imaginings.

167 paradigm of romance hierarchies. Andrea is the powerful one by the end of Porcaccia, though Ludovico had held authority and power over Andrea at the beginning, threatening his very life; by the end of the narrative, Ludovico is the vulnerable and weak one to whom Andrea makes the bold declaration of “Voglio aver cura di te” (PV 152). Here, De Nicolo reinstates the typically heteronormative stereotypes that she upended earlier, exploiting conventional romance clichés that dictate that one partner is superior to, takes ownership over, and takes care of the weaker and usually female dependent partner.

In Raining stars, Dooley repeatedly makes manifest Ethan’s (but also his vampire siblings’) perceived superiority to Liz, highlighting the mortal female’s fragility, smallness, and innocence. The adjectives, similes, and metaphors that Ethan uses to describe Liz and his special treatment of his human lover make his perception of superiority offensively clear; furthermore, he often infantilises her: “La mia dolce, piccola Liz” (RS 132); “Ingenua Liz” (134); “la mia piccola apprendista detective” (140); “‘Piccola Liz’” (141); “quella piccola ragazza” (146). Portrayals of Liz commonly contain implicit acknowledgment of her mortality, of her present peak of beauty and perfection, and yet also a denial of her inevitable mutability as a human and as a woman:

[…] la mia dolce, innocente, ingenua, buona Liz (129) “Dolce amore mio…” (141) Una stella, la mia stella perfetta. (142) Posai una mano sul suo viso, piano, sfiorandola come se fosse il petalo di una rosa. (142) […] gli occhi erano chiusi, delicati. I capelli le ricadevano lungo il viso con i ricci tutti arruffati. E stringeva il telo bianco nella sua piccola mano. (142) […] l’angelo tentatore più dolce del mondo. (143) Il mio piccolo fiore. (146) […] piccola, indifesa, in giro per il mondo solo per potermi riabbracciare. (147) Lei sarebbe stata l’essere più perfetto che le stelle avessero mai osservato, dall’alto del cielo. (147) Ma io ero un vampiro. E lei la mia piccola umana. (257)

In Porcaccia, Andrea frequently underlines Ludovico’s supernatural and otherworldly beauty even before he has consciously come to terms with his attraction to and love for the vampire. On PV 117, for instance, when Andrea describes Ludovico “come un angelo nero cui avevano strappato le ali,” it is in the vampire’s act of dropping a gun, spreading his arms, and approaching Andrea to embrace him. Andrea is honest with himself about his own courage or will in the face of danger: “No, figuriamoci, la fibra morale io facevo prima a cercarla nei cereali che in me stesso” (59). Nevertheless, his self-deprecation masks the flourishing of his true abilities as the

168 saviour—the guardian angel, metaphorical wings and all—to Ludovico and not the other way around. In the beginning, though, as Ludovico privately falls for Andrea, he belittles him, threatening his life to impose his physical superiority on him, but also insults the young man’s savvy and intellect by calling him a studentello. In itself, the unmodified studente is not an insult; Ludovico wields studentello with an implication that he is the better-informed or more intelligent maestro, exploiting the diminutive suffix to reduce Andrea’s stature: «Uno studentello proprio sfortunato» (21) and “«Bravo il mio studentello» approvò con un mezzo sorriso tirato” (61).

Still, Andrea is not immune to expressions and demonstrations of machismo or superiority with regard to other males, paramours or otherwise; his homophobic expressions make this evident,252 as does his judgment of his male friend’s ability to hold his liquor: “forse stavo solo sognando di vagare alle quattro del mattino per prendere la medicina a quella scamorza del mio amico e coinquilino, incapace a reggere qualche litretto di vino rosso e un whiskino” (20). Much like Mirta does after she emerges in undeath and becomes Luna, the youthful, inexperienced, and cynical Andrea, who runs to his mammina for comfort and solace in times of strife and confusion (PV 75), matures over the course of his adventures with Ludovico; he discovers his emotional and physical strength and his determination and focus in the discovery of his love for Ludovico.

A persistent trope in this series and in the romance genre in general is that of imagining one’s life or moments of one’s life as though in a film: the moments experienced are either too good (or so terrible) to be true that there must be some sort of fabrication or layer of falsity spread over the surface of one’s life by outside hands, or the experience feels so otherworldly, unlikely, or uncanny as to evoke the calculated wonder of a cinematic creation. In Raining stars, Liz purchases a Mini Cooper vehicle, a feat she could not have imagined to be possible at her young age of 18 years until she discovers wads of cash in a drawer in Ethan’s abandoned home (RS 95– 96).253 What follows a description of the Mini Cooper—an S model, Liz underlines (“Non avevo bisogno di vedere per averne la certezza ma, mi avvicinai comunque. In realtà, un altro carattere si affiancava alla parola [Cooper], una S” [98])—is the theme of many a “chick-flick” scene, with the shopping scenes in the American film Pretty Woman (1990) coming quickly to mind.

252 See pp. 223–224 in Chapter 5. 253 See pp. 240–241 in Chapter 5 for the excerpt.

169

Indeed, the salesperson’s misjudging the financial freedom of the young (female) client has become a cliché,254 but in works of fantasy and romance, clichés like this one are alive and well and unlikely to pass away soon, as they nourish and satisfy the wishes for riches that the young female reader might possess. In this scene in Raining stars, Liz counters the prejudices and misogyny of the elder male salesperson, whose insistence on her presumed lack of financial means continues to serve as an advertisement for the brand:255 «[…] vede signorina, questa è la nuova Mini Cooper S, un’auto potentissima che vanta tutta la robustezza di un motore BMW. È appena entrata sul mercato e già tutti la richiedono… Detto in parole povere costa decine di migliaia di sterline […]» (98). Finally, as though to acknowledge the chick-flick trope of the weak female coming out strong and defiant over her male oppressors (to her glee and the delight of the reader living vicariously), Dooley adds Liz’s fantasy-tinged view of the situation:

In quel momento non mi sentivo affatto una ragazzina impacciata di diciotto anni. Mi vidi come in un film: masticare un sigaro e sputare per terra dicendo al tizio: “il mondo è un luogo sporco, purtroppo. Chi ha la possibilità di comprarla, ne è il proprietario. E io, al momento, ho questa possibilità”. Sorrisi mentre il concessionario balbettava […]. (98–99; emphasis added)

Later, Liz resurrects the motif of feeling as though she were in a film, and she is invigorated by this sense of specialness and romance in her life, sad though her situation might be in the wake of her relationship’s demise. She has suddenly found hope in an unlikely way, which nurtures the fantasy of her life’s being as fanciful as that of a character in a romance film—rather, the otherworldliness of her own life exceeds that of any romance character’s. She even typifies her relationship with Ethan, in her memory, as “la più dolce storia romantica”:

La sigla di testa era ufficialmente definita. “Alla ricerca di Ethan – Primo Tempo”.256 La vedevo scorrere come un sottotitolo sotto i fotogrammi della mia vita. Ridacchiai divertita. La situazione si faceva complicata, e io pensavo a rivisitare vecchi titoli di film altrettanto vecchi! Tra l’altro, quella era la vita. E l’amore per lui non era un film. Lo superava abbondantemente.

254 Though, of course, in Raining stars, without Ethan’s riches, Liz would not be able to afford the automobile. The influence of the male paramour’s wealth and power persists even in his absence. 255 See pp. 120–121 in Chapter 3 for how Moccia uses brand names in his works to allow his characters and his readers to inhabit a fantasy world where they are wealthy and desired and can have anything they want. 256 As I later relate (see pp. 233–235), this is another peculiar form of anatopism. In the United Kingdom, where these stories are set, no such filmic or theatrical divisions are used; Primo Tempo would indicate the first segment of a film or theatrical sequence only in Italy. If the text were truly loyal to British customs, even if using Italian to convey them, “Alla ricerca di Ethan” would be the title of the Primo Atto, or Act I.

170

Era la più dolce storia romantica, la più avvincente storia d’avventura, il mistero più intrigante di ogni thriller… e soprattutto, al contrario dei film, la mia storia non avrebbe mai conosciuto il significato della parola “fine”. (RS 100)

Of course, Liz is a fictional character based on another fictional character whose own gestation occurred in the dream state of Meyer (Erzen XV; Kramar 15): Meyer’s dream about a vampire and a human in a meadow gave birth to the Twilight series. It is remarkable, then, that thrice- fictional Liz acknowledges the stranger-than-fiction sequence of events in her life while the reader is encouraged to accept some realness in this world of fantasy.

As these are Twilight fanfic works, it may be argued that the Italian style would mimic the very simplistic and bland English forms as well. As Tanya Erzen notes about Meyer’s Twilight Saga, “Reading these books is not a cerebral experience but a deeply emotional and physical one, in which the readers live vicariously through the narration, like a somatic PG experience of torrid romance” (40). For readers who are absorbed by the unfolding fantastical exploits in these romances, it is like they are part of the narration, sharing in the hopes, dreams, disappointments, and victories of their hero or heroine. The “it felt like I was in a movie” trope crosses into trite territory in a work of fanfic, yet, for this very reason, it is endearing, as the reader can relate to the lived fantasy of the character, the wish for events to unfold majestically—for wads of cash to appear, for free time to open up to travel the world in search of one’s one and only. This is one of myriad appeals of fantasy: the escape. And Liz, in the absence of her beloved, lives out dreams and fantasies such that she imagines could occur “only in the movies.”

Finally, no discussion of romance could ever be complete without an inclusion of hyperbolic dramatic statements about the depth of one’s love—or loss—in a romantic relationship. These are a given in Folgorata’s and Dooley’s works, such that they bear no explicit mention and, indeed, they are so frequent that the present reader can find examples in various sections of Chapter 5. Meanwhile, however, references to romantic love in Porcaccia are truly nuanced, and since the reciprocated love is expressed only at the end of the narrative, there are no notable expressions of undying affection until then, when Andrea off-handedly entertains the idea of being with Ludovico forever as a vampire: «Magari mi ripeti come funziona la vampirizzazione» (PV 152). To appease the incredulous Ludovico (“Lui spalanca gli occhi e ci vedo il dubbio e la speranza” [153]) who was now caught off-guard by the boy’s advances and confidence, Andrea removes the intensity and permanence of his insistence to be with Ludovico, and they agree not

171 to make “decisioni improvvise,” settling reasonably on fleeing together «per qualche giorno […] [p]er parlare con calma» (153).

There are numerous remarkable traits about this expression of love. In this book, words do carry weight and romantic hyperbole is not a given; Andrea’s relationships with his friends are supportive and independent (unlike with Liz and Ethan), and our protagonist does not complain or yearn or dwell, and his passions burst forth only when he is enraged, fearful, or concerned. Thus, an expression of not wanting to imagine a world without Ludovico is poignant and meaningful because it is not repeated ad nauseam; Ludovico is incredulous because he cannot take such an affirmation for granted from Andrea’s lips. I believe that De Nicolo, a woman writing the point of view of a man, balances Andrea’s emotions, logic, actions, and speech beautifully, and though she may have been inspired by Le Fanu’s Carmilla, we do have what appears to be a happy ending for Andrea and Ludovico. This is thanks to Andrea’s final declaration of love, which is tinged with devoted, vulnerable, care-full adoration. Some slash- fiction colouring, as mentioned earlier, does permeate these scenes, I maintain: the flourishing of their romance develops from the seemingly innocuous bud of platonic friendship, though there are continual hints to the reader that Andrea might fall for Ludovico, through his explicit denial and vulgar rejection of sexual attraction to the vampire. Finally, though, Andrea’s complete surrender to his feelings is uncharacteristic—which is where De Nicolo balances out the scales: Andrea is nothing if not a tender-hearted, foul-mouthed intellectual, and when he professes his love for Ludovico on PV 151–152, he does, of course, insult his paramour gently and sprinkle his forward fondness with proud profanities.

2 Syntax and Style

Short, incomplete, and even monolexemic sentences are favoured in the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna to reflect the stream-of-consciousness account of the protagonist’s experiences; these sentences, however, are much rarer in, but by no means absent from, the A cena col vampiro books. When they are favoured, it is for a distinct purpose: frasi spezzate or lines or paragraphs containing single words occur in situations of intensity, denoting anguish, anxiety, passion, or fear.

172

In general, the books by Folgorata, Dooley, and De Nicolo exhibit syntax and style that do not mark a departure from standard prose writing, namely because the first two authors ascribe to ideals and conventions prescribed by the genre of romance novels, creating a style that is standard, accessible, and practically monotone. This results, I daresay, in characters that are two- dimensional and to whom the reader relates with difficulty. There are notable exceptions in Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars, however, to this standard prose style, such as deviations from standard word order that mimic orality, though these pale in comparison to the narrative novelties and fluid style that De Nicolo, in the final book of the series, employs in her books. Her diaristic style that blends colloquialisms, irony, sarcasm, high-register utterances, a variety of social situations, recognisable surroundings, and dialogue and narration infused with traits of orality allows for a true sense of familiarity (with the characters and circumstances) to shine through.

Furthermore, Italian cultural indicators are notable and frequent in Porcaccia, with equivalent traits markedly absent from Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars, given the setting of the latter two in the United Kingdom; even then, romance in general influences the style of the text in these two books more than the setting does. All three narratives incorporate references that any global citizen might know—notably in the age of the Internet—including lyrics to Guns N’ Roses songs and the lullaby of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” (though these and other references are decidedly passé for the North American young-adult reader);257 references to The Terminator and “Darth Veder”; brand awareness of Apple products and Mini Coopers; and even mentions of Fascism and political pariahs.

While many of these specific examples converge with other stylistic elements and are discussed

257 That being said, Moccia’s Scusa ma ti chiamo amore, from 2007, opens with lyrics from Cat Stevens’ “Father and Son” (1970), so perhaps these songs have taken on cultural meaning in Italy for young people, something that simply has not occurred in North America. Then again, it must also be noted that it may be that the authors of these works (Palazzolo, Folgorata, Dooley, De Nicolo, and Moccia), all approximately a generation older than their target audiences, are imparting the cultural importance that they attribute to these songs to their audiences. Their young readers may latch on to the meaning of the English lyrics, since most Italian youth understand English in the new millennium, even if the names of the artists are not meaningful to them. It is, of course, beyond the scope of this thesis to explore the cultural significance of these songs and other imported art forms to young people in Italy, but I am curious to delve into this sociological aspect of featuring song lyrics from foreign artists in Italian young-adult novels in the future (as of this writing, I have been remiss to find literature on the topic). Finally, though it is not the case in the instances of most quoted lyrics in the works studied in this thesis, inclusions of song lyrics that are unlikely to be familiar to young protagonists are explicable when the lyrics are quoted by immortal creatures who have traversed many (cultural) epochs.

173 in other sections in Chapter 5,258 it is important to note that the authors assume a mutual cultural understanding with the readers,259 which allows Folgorata, Dooley, and De Nicolo to introduce these cultural referents into their prose and permits these elements to influence the authors’ style and the manner in which they tell their diverse stories. In the sections that follow, I will examine syntactic and stylistic phenomena, namely providing an analysis and survey of repetition, register, and direct discourse.

2.1 Repetition

In many cases, the repetition of words or phrases in these novels is an effective leitmotif; in many others still, it is distracting and tiresome. Ludovico’s scent is in the former category in Porcaccia, un vampiro! Andrea initially mentions as an afterthought the subtle aroma of cinnamon that accompanies the vampire, but the early introduction sows the seeds of association with the character just as the scent sowed love in Andrea: “Mi venne in mente quanto fosse più facile avvertirne la presenza per l’odore che per il rumore dei passi. Un odore gradevole ma strano, tipo cannella, mascherato ogni tanto dalle sigarette” (PV 7). Its subsequent reference occurs on PV 51: “E quell’odore di cannella, tenue ma inconfondibile.”

Meanwhile, the exasperating insistence on eyes and gazes in Moonlight rainbow potentially irks the reader; just to give a few examples, occhi, iridi, or sguardo are mentioned five times on MR 38; five times on 39; four times on 40; and six times on 41. Considering that the changing colours of the eyes of the vampires denotes changes in temperament or sentiment, like the colours of a mood ring, the insistence is not surprising; nevertheless, its imposition seems forced to this reader.

In addition to persistent ocular descriptions, in Folgorata’s writing, body parts, as though disembodied, awkwardly act on the person’s behalf. To do this, Folgorata employs possessive adjectives and adjectival phrases in Moonlight rainbow rather than unmarked versions that employ indirect object pronouns, or she simply personifies the active body parts instead of handing over the actions, passive or active, to the person proper:

258 See section 3 in Chapter 5 for more on the lexicon employed in these books (pp. 205–253). 259 Still, there are De Nicolo’s “NdA” footnotes that assume the opposite. Their metanarrative inclusion in the text aims to bridge the gap of cultural disparity, should it exist.

174

La mente di Elisabeth tornò all’ultimo tentativo disperato di Ethan di salvarle la vita. (MR 12) Le labbra di Liz emisero un sospiro sofferente. […] La mente di Ethan cercò inutilmente di schiarire i pensieri. (24) Gli occhi di Ethan si spostarono alle prime gocce di pioggia sui vetri. (31) Le labbra di Ethan emisero un sospiro greve. […] La mano di Ethan tracciò lunghi segni ondulati sul terreno […]. (59) Le spalle di Ethan si sollevarono incuranti. (60) La mente ingiunse al viso di Ethan di restare impassibile. (66) Il corpo di Ethan scoprì di potersi muovere agilmente. (76) Le mani di Ethan cominciarono a scuoterla per le spalle. (97) I fianchi di Ethan avvertirono un morbido abbraccio circondargli la vita… […] La mano di Elisabeth lo tirò per la cintura. (133)

Notably, in the sentences on MR 24, the omission of “Le labbra di Liz” (and the change of emisero to emise) and “La mente di” would change very little in communicating the actors’ actions; similarly, in the last two examples, from MR 133, “Ethan avvertì” and simply “Elisabeth lo tirò” would function equally to indicate the characters as the doers rather than their bodies.

Unmarked ways of referring to body parts are much rarer in the text, but their unmarked simplicity actually makes them stand out in Folgorata’s writing:

Una ruga profonda le si disegnò sulla fronte. Lei era stata l’unica all’oscuro di tutto… Il grido di Zachary “Parla Tristan!” udito prima di inseguire Ethan nella foresta… Le rieccheggiò nella mente. (MR 87) Gli occhi blu di Ethan le accarezzarono i lineamenti. […] «Sei incredibile Liz» bisbigliò posandole un bacio sulle labbra. L’amore di Ethan le si diffuse nelle vene. (88)

Descriptions of Liz’s frequent daydreaming in Moonlight rainbow follow similar repetitive syntactic patterns: “La voce di Zachary richiamò Elisabeth alla realtà” (MR 10); “La voce di Tristan riportò Elisabeth alla realtà” (22); “La mente passò agli altri esseri misteriosi. […] La voce di Zachary la scosse” (88). Liz is depicted as an emotional wreck in Ethan’s absence, speaking incessantly and unrelentingly disturbing Tristan. Fulfilling her romantic destiny, she is completely dependent on the male and is unable to even function during his short absences:

«Ti prego dimmi che ce la faranno[.]» Liz si era accasciata ai piedi di Tristan in fondo alla scalinata del maniero. […] « […] Ethan e Zachary sono le persone più buone del mondo. Non può essere successo niente di male no? Non se lo meriterebbero vero? Tristan…» (MR 79)

Similarly repetitive, though appropriately so in a narrative presenting the adventures and romances of bloodsucking vampires, ringhio and ringhiare are high-frequency words in their

175 varied permutations in Moonlight rainbow. The words underline the bestial nature beneath the delicate but strong beauty of the Rochester vampires, and they are often qualified with an adjective connoting danger or even meekness: “Un ringhio furioso” (MR 25); “Il ringhio soffocato del vampiro la fermò” (38); “Un ringhio soffocato” (40); “Il ringhio di Zachary” (42); “Il ringhio di Pamela fece tremare i vetri” (86); “Ethan ringhiò” (120).

Repeated forms in Raining stars are somewhat less prominent; themes of romance, persistent affirmations of Ethan and Liz’s co-dependence, and the lovers’ wish to be together until the end of time are the most obvious forms of repetition in Dooley’s undead romance. In this story, while it does not deal with the type of (im)mortal danger faced by Ludovico and Andrea (see below), Ethan struggles with the absence of his beloved Liz, and the panic and torment waged by his mind on his heart cause him to obsess about what is missing in his life—an endless, hopeless existence—without his lover. Though most pages of Raining stars feature paragraphs containing at least a few sentences, the majority of which are complete, RS 129 contains 14 discrete paragraphs (RS 259 competes with 19) in one page; these contain anywhere from a single word or phrase to a pair of sentences or phrases. Ethan’s dramatic desperation is palpable not just from the textual formatting of this excerpt but also from the infatuated repetition of abstract concepts like death, love, life, and eternity, with a final addition of his beloved’s beatific name:

La morte sarebbe più dolce di questo eterno dolore. Eterno, come il ricorrersi del giorno e della notte. Eterno, come il vento, l’aria, la terra. Eterno, come il ricordo vivo, pungente e atroce dei mesi più belli mai passati in più di duecento anni di vita. Vita, sempre che la si potesse chiamare tale. […] Erano mesi, non so quanti, che io, Ethan Lewis Rochester, ero morto. Morto dentro. Forse, anche noi avevamo un’anima. La mia, però, l’avevo persa per sempre. L’avevo persa per amore. Amore. Non era nulla di astratto quella parola. Perché ogni lettera ne richiamava un’altra, riportando alla mente il suo nome. Liz. Elisabeth. Amore. Liz. […] Liz. Elisabeth. Amore. Morte. Amore. Abbandono. Addio. Ti amo. (RS 129)

Indeed, the tacit equation of Liz’s name with love itself in addition to Ethan’s wish to renounce life if he must live it without Liz are strikingly dramatic but appropriate to the genre. Dooley evokes Ethan’s misery effectively by isolating the vampire’s excruciating thoughts and emotions into separate phrases, sentences, and paragraphs imbued with distress and also by repeating key

176 concepts throughout the vampire’s distraught thoughts.

In Porcaccia, a homodiegetic narrative in contrast with the objective extradiegesis of Moonlight rainbow and the measured yet somewhat varied homodiegesis of Raining stars, Andrea does not filter his speech or his thoughts: he says exactly what he means without a care as to how his words will be perceived. The curse words that spill out of his mouth often reflect a situation of frustration or difficulty, and the repetition of cazzo, with an added superlative in porchissimo reiterates his consternation: “Cazzo cazzo porchissimo cazzo” (PV 87). In other instances, banal words are repeated not in syntactic sequence but at the beginning of separate sentences, often in new paragraphs, to add force and weight to the issue or sentiment expressed or to meaningfully juxtapose opposing images or ideas:

Avrei voluto gridargli: vai e salvati. Avrei voluto gridargli: non mi abbandonare. (PV 117) Talvolta l’oscurità non spaventa. Talvolta protegge. Talvolta la luce non salva. Talvolta distrugge. Ci sono bagliori osceni e spietati. E ci sono creature fatte di tenebra che rifulgono. (117–118) «Piangi pure, andrà tutto bene. Tutto bene. Tutto bene. Tutto bene.» (118)

In the following excerpt, the manner in which De Nicolo portrays Andrea’s flow of terrified thoughts is remarkably effective. In this scene, a mafioso threatens Andrea’s safety to convince Ludovico to yield to a group of men who wish to conduct risky medical tests on the vampire. It is evident to the reader that the boy is one-track–minded due to unspeakable fear as he imagines his gruesome fate—namely, the ways in which his brains could explode from his skull as a result of a gunshot to his head. This is a defence mechanism, as it allows Andrea to occupy himself with imagery that he may have seen only in films, that is, in fiction, or in the safety of familiar spaees, where all the items can be found; it allows him to access the darkest corners of this situation in a detached manner, creating space away from his fear and potential reality by playing this game with himself.260 Each of his mental interventions is placed on a separate line from the description of his lived reality, each in a new paragraph, in much the same way as dialogue is interspersed:

260 This is reminiscent of Mirta’s repetition of “Eravamo in macchina” as a grounding mechanism, though Andrea’s does the opposite: it pulls him out of the situation, while Mirta’s pulls her in, like anchoring her mind on her breath or a mantra in a focused meditation. See pp. 58–59 in Chapter 2 for the analysis from Mirta-Luna.

177

Fui afferrato al volo e messo in ginocchio mentre mi piantava la canna [del fucile] dietro la nuca. «Così avresti una bella visuale» disse il Boss a Ludovico. «I frammenti del suo cervello ti schizzerebbero addosso a fontana, non credi?» O come un fuoco d’artificio, pensai io. «Oppure possiamo fare così. Ogni volta che disubbidisci, gli spezzo qualcosa.» O una bottiglia di salsa dimenticata al sole. «Secondo te, quanto reggerebbe? A me non sembra molto robusto.» O una [sic] magnum di brachetto. «Ma Amos è un artista e può farlo durare giorni.» O un brufolo schifoso. «Nel suo lavoro mette una passione speciale.» O una bomboletta spray surriscaldata. «Gli romperà i denti perché non morda ciò che gli ficcherà in bocca.» Ludovico gridò. (PV 108–109)

The organisation of this repetitive prose is effective for two more reasons: firstly, the alternating “O…” evokes the wide-open shape of a mouth or the eyes of a person who is filled with horror; secondly, the increasingly vile detailed threats prolong the scene and Ludovico’s agony, who faces this situation until his breaking point. Andrea’s self-preserving mental repetition of these messy household disasters amongst gruesome scenes continues even after Ludovico’s terrified shriek, which the “Boss” interprets as Ludovico’s consent to begin the physical exam:

«Professore, il paziente è tutto suo» affermò il Boss. […] O un tubetto di dentifricio schiacciato, continuavo a enumerare io. […] O un’arancia pestata. […] O un pomodoro spremuto. (109–110)

Shortly thereafter, at Ludovico’s behest, Andrea shuts out the scene of suffering before him by closing his eyes, not just blocking out reality by distracting his mind with grotesque images as he had done earlier, but by literally interrupting his visual input and actively denying his disturbing reality by negating it with frantic, incomplete sentences in his mind: “Io chiusi gli occhi. Non potevo. Non di nuovo. Non era niente. Non era reale. Non ero lì. Nuotavo nel mare. Acqua fredda e limpida e pulita tutt’intorno e sopra la testa, immerso in un silenzio perfetto” (111).

2.2 Direct Discourse

In all three of the novels studied in this chapter, the authors adopt the expected convention for conveying direct discourse for dialogue, and few instances of indirect discourse exist in any of the books. In Folgorata’s, Dooley’s, and De Nicolo’s writings, virgolette («…») and not trattini (—) are used for quoted dialogue, with Dooley using quotation marks (“…”) for thoughts that are not uttered. A few notable deviations exist in Raining stars and Porcaccia, un vampiro!

178

Dooley’s Raining stars, like Meyer’s New Moon, features dream sequences, reveries, and memories in the narration that play back in Liz’s mind in the absence of the girl’s beloved Ethan; in most of these, where dialogue occurs, it is reported as direct discourse between virgolette, though quotation marks are used for thoughts and when remembering a few sentences or phrases that were meaningful, like a refrain repeated in Liz’s mind:261

“Ethan, dannato Ethan come puoi, come hai potuto… Non lo voglio il paradiso. Vorrei perdermi in te, nel tuo amore: per me, non esiste altro. […]” (RS 57) “A modo mio ti amerò sempre”, sentivo la voce di Ethan, come un sussurro nella mente, che mi ripeteva la frase di quella canzone. “Oh sì, anche io Ethan, anche io ti amerò per sempre. […]” (61)

Porcaccia, which follows the conventional dialogic norms outlined above, diverges near the end of the novel, when Andrea is liberated from his captivity and does not know if Ludovico is alive or dead. He is being interrogated by two carabinieri, to whom he refers as “tu” and “lui,” the latter referring to “il Cobra”; they are animated by Andrea through the boy’s seemingly passive narration, but their speech is expressed through indirect or paraphrased discourse, as though the Andrea who is present in the room were translating the exchange to the part of Andrea that is dormant or numbed in the absence of Ludovico. I use the term “passive narration” because Andrea is not a willing participant in this exchange; his only care is that Ludovico is alive and well, which he doubts. The carabinieri summon the boy’s active presence and participation by force, and the young man’s temporary attention is signalled by virgolette:

Magari alla fine potrò girare col piattino a raccogliere gli spicci. Tu gridi «Magli, girati» e io ti rivolgo la mia più riuscita faccia da allocco. T’incazzi e mi fai il riassunto: da mesi eri sulle tracce di quel trafficante internazionale di libri antichi con cui mi intrattenevo - forse è la mia immaginazione ma l’hai detto in modo strano - quando la tua indagine ha tamponato quella dei tuoi colleghi […]. (PV 130–131)

Suddenly, when Andrea summons the courage to ascertain his beloved’s fate, he is able to speak of his own volition, and discourse between Cespuglio and the carabinieri lights up via the reintroduction of the usual punctuation:

[…] Mi chiedi quale sia il vero nome del trafficante, in che modo fosse coinvolto nell’affare e perché lo avessero usato come cavia. «Lo chieda a lui» faccio. «È in Rianimazione» rispondi. Provo sollievo e sofferenza. (PV 132)

261 More on this style of formatting can be found in section 2.3 in Chapter 5 (pp. 199–205).

179

These exchanges continue and Andrea begins to doubt, once again, that Ludovico will pull through; indirect discourse resumes. Finally, on PV 134, when Andrea is brusquely asked where Ludovico has gone, he knows: Ludovico is alive and has escaped. Thus, direct discourse takes over: Andrea is alive once again because Ludovico is alive. Typical of the romance novel, the romance trope of one member of a couple metaphorically dying in the absence of the other is replicated successfully here, followed by the subsequent “reviving” of the emotionally lifeless individual in the knowledge of the beloved’s safety and unmarred (im)mortality.

Finally, when Andrea and Ludovico are in hiding as they flee from the “Caramba,”262 their communication is interlaced within the paragraphs of Andrea’s narations and is devoid of quotation marks to indicate oral communication between the vampire and the boy. This, I believe, is an appropriate technique, since slyness and silence characterise their cunning communication as they hide in a public restroom, with Andrea shrugging to say sorry and also “non rompere le palle” (PV 147) and Ludovico mouthing the spelling of an item of his left in plain view that could give their presence away (147).

Essentially, De Nicolo has her protagonist use indirect discourse to sum up what has already been said when the narrator is emotionally or physically too weak to speak or interact, or when actions speak louder than words; in these brief exchanges, only key emotional moments are communicated with direct discourse, while actions and summaries are included in the prose of the narration.

2.3 Register and Orality

As discussed in Chapter 2,263 while the contemporary romance novel does not necessarily ascribe to linguistic ideals that necessitate that narration and dialogue always be formal and high register, many authors may still choose to abide by these constraints for aesthetics’ sake, for tradition’s sake, or both. That being said, amongst the six novels studied in this thesis, two truly stand out as being more strictly adherent to the formality of the classic romance novel: Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars. Indeed, though still containing some aspects of colloquial

262 See pp. 208–209 in Chapter 5 for more on this slang term for carabinieri. 263 See section 5.3 (pp. 71–81) in Chapter 2.

180 language, though sparse, these two stories bear the marks of earlier stylistic and linguistic influences and, modelled as they are on the undead romance of the Twilight Saga (which, for example, also replicates outmoded relations between men and women), are faithful to the native characteristics of their parent genre, that is, the romance novel.

In Moonlight rainbow, the verbs udire, emettere, and attendere are examples that illustrate the higher register of much of the narrative prose, though the writing can, in general, be characterised as mid register and unmarked in style and tone: «No. Questo ho udito […]» (MR 36); “Le labbra di Liz emisero un sospiro sofferente” (59). Even in a scene exploring explicit intimacy, the formal attendere as well as a euphemism for a man’s sexual organ coexist: “La virilità di Ethan non accennò a voler percorrere la sua via. Liz ne sentiva la forza sulle natiche ma Ethan sapeva farla attendere” (46).

Folgorata’s and Dooley’s books are meant to identify the Rochester clan and the vampire clans with whom they fraternise to be high-class, wealthy, sophisticated, and cultured. They communicate in crisp, clean English, which, of course, is presented to the reader in crisp, clean Italian prose (“clean,” of course, if one ignores the myriad typographical errors and punctuation anomalies). Indeed, there is little that is noteworthy, inventive, or, I daresay, realistic about the prose: the Rochesters, despite their fantastic and adventurous lives, communicate in unremarkable ways, and the extradiegetic narration of Moonlight rainbow, in this way, appropriately reflects this lack of personality. Nevertheless, even the myriad homodiegetic narrators in Raining stars do little to give personality and character to the constantly varying narrators. Indeed, colloquial dialogue is practically absent in these works, with some exceptions; one such exception involves Liz’s mother, Endora, whose communication is coloured with desperate pleas to spend time with her newly vampiric daughter in Moonlight rainbow. Furthermore, Liz’s mother is a symbol of Liz’s “humble” past, and Endora’s speech matches the realness and simplicity of this past life: «Beh ma un po’ di brodo che male fa?» (MR 86). She is amongst the most persistent and irksome characters in the series, but it is informal and uninhibited manners of expression like this that increase her likeability and relateability. Unfortunately, the mother’s naïveté, simplicity, and down-to-earth persona are a recurrent cause of annoyance to the vampires, as though the woman’s mere humanity were a nuisance to their snobby, high-class immortal existence.

181

That, for this reader, is the major issue with Folgorata’s and Dooley’s books in comparison with those of De Nicolo and Palazzolo: they lack in dialogic imagination and their characters are not at all relateable as they do not speak or act like real people. Naturally, the goal of many romance novels is that of creating an atmosphere of fantasy, a space that is so unlike one’s own surroundings as to allow the reader to dream about inhabiting such a space. It is not wrong that Folgorata and Dooley create surreal landscapes and characters, because those have an appeal for certain audiences; I argue, however, that a mid register is more appropriate for the telling of undead romance stories. The undead nature of some of the characters adds enough to the fantasy; the dialogue, at the very least, should invite readers to lean in to familiar linguistic territory, not cause them to cock their heads at the unnatural, robotic way in which the characters converse.264

Quite the opposite is remarked in Porcaccia: instead of following conventions that rely on formality or a language that is simple, unmarked, and standard, De Nicolo offers a style that feels like pages ripped right out of Andrea’s diary, or like actual transcriptions of a young Italian boy’s conversation with his comrades. No banter or colloquy feels forced, and yours truly laughed out loud on myriad occasions while reading Porcaccia. The author’s writing is natural and flows freely, in stark contrast with Folgorata’s and Dooley’s, which are marked with awkward syntax, incorrect punctuation conventions, and repeated words and expressions. Still, it must be noted that the mimesis of orality in De Nicolo’s work present in all corners of this homodiegetic story influences the realness of the narrative, such that dialogue and narration might blend seamlessly into one another were it not for the reign of punctuation bringing divine order to the narrative. While De Nicolo’s work counts only 154 pages, significant action and natural-sounding, low- and mid-register Italian dialogue is included, with standard, mid-register prose used for much of the narration; this story, told from Andrea’s point of view, therefore, includes low-register colouring of many descriptions. Nonetheless, Andrea’s higher education sometimes creeps into his prose;265 unlike Liz who negates her past once she becomes a vampire, Andrea narrates a story in which he embraces his roots and his uninhibited self, smoothly blending high and low registers, with mid-register standards everywhere in between.

264 Though no such line is present in the books, in the first of the five Twilight films, when Bella discovers through her own research that Edward is a vampire, she lists some of the facts about him that make him different, one of which being that “sometimes [he] speak[s] like—like [he is] from a different time” (Twilight [film]). 265 See pp. 211–212 in Chapter 5 for more on clever “maccheronic” combinations.

182

Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars, counting 367 and 263 pages respectively, could have been told with a fraction of each book removed, as much of the pages contained filler with romantic descriptors about the characters’ eyes and physicality instead of allowing the stories to unfold with ease by means of action and realistic wordplay. That said, the space in the narration imposed by these forays into intimate descriptions and drawn-out dialogue forces the reader to exercise patience and wait for the story to be told, for the romantic scenes to unfold, and for the happy ending to eventually come.

Porcaccia, un vampiro! offers a variety of syntactical forms, with long sentences commingling comfortably with shorter, incomplete ones, and all of these can include high-register expressions, standard word order, and colloquial forms and low-register forms that convey the rhythm of orality. In one instance, as Andrea traces his actions upon arriving home, he indicates a quick evolution from the “clean” style of the previous sentences and also includes an abrupt change in register, as his stream-of-consciousness description flows into—and then just as swiftly away from—his upset at a window’s having been left open: “Entrai in bagno, chicazzo aveva lasciato aperta la finestra, feci pipì e mentre mi lavavo le mani considerai la mia faccia ventiquattrenne battuta come un tappeto” (6). While Andrea’s narrations do continue to feature these amusing and useful traits that capture the reader’s focus, as they resemble how the reader’s own mind likely works, the stream-of-consciousness of Porcaccia is not the same as Mirta-Luna’s: the latter is entirely diaristic, with short, incomplete thoughts dominating the first-person narration and never a sense that the veracity of the events is being compromised, while the former contains equal parts seemingly objective narration and a “versione parzialmente scremata del frappè” (138), that is, a retelling of the events that befell Andrea after and as he experienced them in a version befitting the receiver of his story.266

To conclude this section, the following excerpt also provides a good sampling of the tone and register used in Porcaccia; it also demonstrates the self-awareness of the speaker and the understanding that the interlocutor inhabits a reality shared by the speaker—one in which vampires are believed to be creatures of make-believe:

266 See an explanation of this on pp. 156–157.

183

Innegabile. Conoscevo Ludovico da circa un anno ma ancora non ero assuefatto. Dico, al fatto che fosse un vampiro. Non in senso morale, proprio nell’accezione di non-morto o come cacchio si dice. All’inizio mi aveva terrorizzato, e dato l’approccio che aveva avuto vorrei vedere chi non se la sarebbe fatta addosso, poi mi ero calmato. Abituato no, o forse sì, mah. Di sicuro, restavo un ficcanaso masochista. (PV 8)

3 Summary and Conclusions

In terms of notability and interest, the aspects of repetition, register, and direct discourse tend to involve excerpts and analysis primarily from De Nicolo’s work: while her novel is the shortest of the three studied in this chapter, the book is brimming with curious colloquial characteristics worth examining under a magnifying glass. As mentioned in parts of this section, Porcaccia reads like a diary, allowing transcribed speech, remembered moments, vague memories, and personal reflections to commingle while retaining the formality or informality of the situation being recounted. Porcaccia, un vampiro! reads as an un–self-conscious record of a young man’s discovery of himself in a world of supernatural unknowns, sexual novelties, and amorous adventures. The reader breezes through the homodiegetic narrative, not because of simplistic prose but, rather, because of the expressive mannerisms of the characters and the flawless mimesis of Italian orality. As I stated earlier, in De Nicolo, no sentence is forced, and readers follow along with the actions and conversations of each character as though they were observing and taking in a scene that was unfolding right in front of them. Indeed, De Nicolo is extraordinarily skilled in rendering her fictional scenes an almost seamless part of the reader’s existence, connecting the words on the page to a paradigm that would easily ensconce itself amongst the reader’s everyday existence.

Conversely, with regard to Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars, the reader must frequently pause while consuming the stilted, unnatural dialogue of the characters; every character displays self-conscious behaviours in these books, which could reflect a lack of confidence on the part of the authors. These authors scarcely lay bare the personalities of the two-dimensional Rochesters and their paranormal company, preventing the extradiegetic narrator in Moonlight rainbow or even the homodiegetic narrators in Raining stars from describing whole, complex beings, vampiric or otherwise, and allowing for only the representation of superficial facsimiles of

184 human beings. Trace appearances of high-register syntagms and lexemes, like udire (“Non era difficile dopo averlo udito pronunciare quella frase” [RS 8]), appear to fulfill a conventional need instead of being something that the characters would actually say or think.267 Thus, these types of inclusions do not comprise a grand marked departure from the style of the narration; indeed, it is far more significant when a character curses in Folgorata and Dooley—and that is, for the most part, when these characters are at their most relatable. When a standard or formal tone is used in Dooley’s work, as in Folgorata’s, it is not particularly notable, given the conventional framework within which the authors write, where formality and standard prose are expected by the reader; in Porcaccia, high-register expressions add humour but also gravitas, given their inclusion in a relatively informal prose style.

The following chapter, “‘Porcaccia! Un po’ di brodo che male fa?’: the Language of the A cena col vampiro Books,” draws from the stylistic conclusions expounded upon in this chapter and, in a style akin to that employed in Chapters 2 and 3, lists and details the linguistic choices made by each of the authors studied in this chapter. Much of what has been determined here, in terms of obeisance of romance conventions and spontaneity of establishing and following one’s own style, carries over to the linguistic choices that the authors make: as one might expect, especially given her book’s mild curse in its very title, De Nicolo is linguistically freer, mirroring the speech but also the lifestyle of the average Italian teenager or young adult rather than replicating the fantastical, far-fetched, and idealistic situations depicted in the conventional romance novel. The speech traits include a liberal use of expletives and characteristics befitting orality. Meanwhile, Dooley and Folgorata remain the conservative duo in this series, keeping strictly abreast of conservative expectations in their neutral language, such that the reader can distinguish between speakers only by the grace of speech tags and not by any distinct speech patterns employed by each character.

267 See pp. 27 and 35 in Chapter 2.

185

Chapter 5 “Porcaccia! Un po’ di brodo che male fa?”: the Language of the A cena col vampiro268 Books

1 Introduction: Juxtaposing the Idealised Monologues of Liz and Ethan and the Edgy, Realistic Dialogues of Andrea and Ludovico

The present chapter complements the study contained in Chapter 4 on the style of writing employed by Folgorata, Dooley, and De Nicolo in the A cena col vampiro series and the genre or genres under which they fall. The first two of these writers, whose works are young-adult undead romances—with an emphasis on “romance”—intentionally created works falling under the subcategory of fan fiction;269 in De Nicolo’s case, her novel is a young-adult undead romance, with a modern and non-heteronormative twist, which allows it to share space with slash fiction, too.270 De Nicolo, stylistically, generically, and with her homodiegetic narration, is better “lumped along” with Palazzolo, as both novelists iterated works of fiction featuring protagonists who, along their journeys toward love, freedom, and self-discovery, learn about their own sexuality outside of the heteronormative scheme; their works constitute undead romances subgenerically—a blend of horror and romance—and they share the same audience of adolescent and young-adult females, though De Nicolo’s male protagonist could, indeed, allow for the inclusion of more young men in her fanbase. Nonetheless, as Porcaccia’s initial inclusion in the A cena col vampiro romance series suggests, the series targeted only the primarily young-adult female and adult-female fanbase targeted by Twilight and its fan-fiction writers. Furthermore,

268 These books, which will be published by Òphiere as they are “in fase di remake totale” (“La Saga della Sedicesima Notte”), are currently referred to as La saga della sedicesima notte. This naming convention—that is, referring to the series as a saga—is fitting, as each book in the re-imagined series shares the same characters and is inspired by the Twilight Saga by Meyer. 269 See pp. 141–142 for the definition and exploration of what fan fiction, or fanfic, is. 270 See pp. 153–154 for the introduction to slash fiction.

186 with its slash leanings, young women would typically be the primary consumers of this homosexual romance.271

Chapter 5 of this thesis investigates the use and effects of the smaller parts of the language employed by these authors. Having established the context for this linguistic study on A cena col vampiro in Chapter 4’s generic and stylistic examination, and employing the model used for the linguistic analysis contained in Chapter 3, we can initiate the discussion and examination of the smaller (but not less important) linguistic traits that are common to and diverging in the works of A cena col vampiro. These traits are divided into the two following subsections: Lexicon, the latter and heftiest part of this chapter, as it is in Chapter 3, and Punctuation, Orthography, and Formatting, which includes a short examination of paralinguistic items. Notably, the section on paralinguistic items in this chapter is more than twice as long as the one in Chapter 3; indeed, given the birth of the A cena col vampiro books in the recesses of Internet forums and due to the proud DIY and grassroots attitudes of the writers (meaning, that is, that these emerging authors were often the editors of their friends’ works),272 there is a significant lack of consistency to the punctuation, spelling, and format of these books—namely, Dooley’s and Folgorata’s.

In the subsections of these two overarching headers, I include an analysis of specific relevant phenomena. While, in previous chapters, I compare Palazzolo’s works to those of Mirta-Luna’s creator’s contemporaries in horror and romance and in the subgenres of chick-lit, teen-lit, and undead romance, in this chapter, as in Chapter 4, I close the circle of my research, bringing the works of the A cena col vampiro authors into direct comparison with the works of Palazzolo and, in turn, their shared contemporaries. These lists of linguistic features are by no means exhaustive, but, nevertheless, they are representative of the qualities that recur throughout each book and, with the exception of De Nicolo’s work,273 are likely to recur throughout the A cena col vampiro series.

271 For more on the suggested audiences for these works, see Chapter 4 and also the discussions in Chapter 2 of the audience for Mirta-Luna. 272 As an early summary of the series’ creation, on the back of Moonlight rainbow, reads, it is “[u]na storia nata nella rete dalla rete.” See Montanari’s discussion of the editing process in the following pages; see also pp. 145–146. 273 As the present reader will learn on p. 189, Montanari confirms Porcaccia’s exceptionality in its superior editing and formatting quality.

187

As in Chapter 3, the attributes outlined in this chapter are often self-explanatory; I have expanded upon some of these when deeper analysis is merited, examining phenomena side-by- side with the Trilogia or, as is often the case, the Twilight Saga upon which Dooley and Folgorata based their fanfic. Finally, as in Chapter 4, the source of each characteristic under consideration from De Nicolo’s, Dooley’s, and Folgorata’s works is indicated by the italicised initials PV, RS, and MR, corresponding respectively to Porcaccia, un vampiro!, Raining stars, and Moonlight rainbow; page numbers of reference follow each abbreviation (i.e., PV 9 indicates page 9 from Porcaccia, un vampiro!). As I did in Chapter 4, the linguistic traits placed under our microscope in this chapter are categorised according to the traits examined and not according to the books examined. Thus, all of the books may be discussed in any section, usually starting with book 1 in the series, Moonlight rainbow. This chapter comprises the final instalment in my study of the language and style of the contemporary Italian undead-romance novel.

2 Punctuation, Orthography, and Formatting

Before we begin the analysis of the paralinguistic items in A cena col vampiro, let us set expectations: Dooley, Folgorata, and De Nicolo have different relationships and varying levels of skill with common punctuation marks. The most notable variance exists with the use of the comma and the ellipsis, as I will describe in the following sections. Folgorata is inconsistent in her use of the comma, for instance, using it often where it is not needed and omitting it where it is, and Dooley is similarly culpable; meanwhile, De Nicolo demonstrates comparative ease and fluidity in her punctuation style, though the formatting is still by no means perfect or close to it.

A look at orthography and syntax in the series shows inconsistent and, unfortunately, truly sloppy editing, such that anomalies of the following sort are not uncommon (I invite the reader to pay close attention, because some errors blend in): “Gli occhi Ethan fissarono senza remore la gemma incisa alla mano di Lenith” (MS 67); “erano i questi luoghi che gli ricordavano la famiglia e l’umanità di un tempo” (RS 113); «Senti qua, potrei cucinarci un uovo..» (PV 121). It is explicit, in the descriptions on the book jackets for Folgorata’s and Dooley’s books, that these fanfic books, labours of love penned by women whose fan musings gained immense popularity

188 on the Twilight fan site edwardandbella.forumcommunity.net, were edited by other authors and fans on the forum and not necessarily by professionals:

Una storia nata nella rete dalla rete, cui ha collaborato la squadra imbattibile della Bloody Roses Secret Society: Folgorata (l’autrice con 19513 visite su una storia in rete), Gaiottina (l’editor), Gothika85 (grafica di copertina e controllo plot), Micaela274 e Nereide (rilettura finale), Nereide (promozione).

Thus, it is becoming clearer why the publisher is creating a “rema[d]e and reloaded” version of the series, as depicted in Figure 4, below:

Figure 4. The landing page275 for the A cena col vampiro series, which will become La saga della sedicesima notte, on the Òphiere web site276

274 Michaela Dooley/Intermite’s first name is a common Italian first name (though it is usually spelled without the redundant a in the second syllable); nonetheless, it sees a variety of misspellings wherever her work or influence is cited in A cena col vampiro’s publications and marketing. See also the misspelling of her name in Figure 4, above. 275 This screenshot (see “La Saga della sedicesima notte”) is from September 2017 and remains unchanged in April 2018.

189

Finally, with regard to formatting, single-sentence paragraphs are rampant and appear to be close to the norm in the undead romance.277 Incomplete sentences continue to abound, but they are still not as frequent as in the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna. Of the three books studied in this chapter, Porcaccia’s formatting most resembles the Trilogia’s, with its diaristic format and the apparent intentionality of the spacing and layout of the words, sentences, and paragraphs.

I wrote to Mamma Editori from the Òphiere web site in March 2018 to inquire about the copyediting process for A cena col vampiro, since it appeared—from the ringraziamenti in each book to the final forms of the book objects proper—that the books’ refinement relied on a group effort and not on the professional hand of a skilled editor. The e-mail address listed on the Òphiere web site for general inquiries was [email protected], so I was surprised to receive a personal response from Monica Montanari, who identified herself as the person behind the pen name Violet Folgorata and the founder of Mamma Editori.278 When she kindly responded the day after I wrote to her, she alluded to a light editing process, described amusingly in the following way: “Le anticipo che la revisione è gestita in casa editrice, i volumi da lei menzionati sono stati realizzati tranne ‘Porcaccia’ un po’ alla cavalleggera, erano esperimenti che poi trovando un mercato ci hanno portato a dedicarci alla narrativa romance in modo più organizzato” (Montanari). Though I could imagine what she meant by “un po’ alla cavalleggera,” I did not wish to misinterpret her words; thus, I responded with a request for clarification, to which she benevolently obliged, summoning the classic Fantozzi in her response to explain her use of “alla cavalleggera”:279 “In ogni caso come osservava D’Annunzio il cavalleggero abituato a star molto in sella è sempre irrequieto e fa le cose in velocità, di

276 As mentioned earlier, Michala in “Michala Dooley” should be spelled Michaela, just like the author’s real first name is spelled (note also the three s in della in the first paragraph). Also, it is worth noting the classification of these texts as “Young Adult Romance,” which is in line with the subgenre of the Twilight series by Meyer. 277 See section 5 in Chapter 2 (pp. 52–58). 278 See pp. 145–146 in Chapter 4 for Montanari’s self-introduction. 279 “Mi pare una citazione da un celebre grido di Paolo Villaggio in uno dei tanti ‘Fantozzi’ pellicole entrate a vario titolo nel costume anche attraverso il linguaggio :-)” (Montanari). See pp. 100–101 for more on this déjà-vu of Fantozzi’s influence on the Italian language and on the language of youth in particular.

190 passaggio […].”280 The literary justification for the lackluster copyediting for this series is followed by additional explanation, in which Montanari indicated to me that the series was started as an experiment and, as we see confirmed on the Òphiere web site,281 is undergoing a “reloading” for a more careful and tidy publication. She identifies herself as the publisher (“l’editore”) and asserts that “[l]’editing è frutto di un lavoro condiviso e così pure la mera correzione di bozze, con un ‘occhiata finale da parte dell’editore, cioè io, assai impreciso perché come ripeto eravamo in fase molto sperimentale, non pensavamo di fare poi troppo sul serio.” She concedes, finally, “Tant’è che i volumi richiedono un robusto lavoro di revisione.” As I mentioned earlier, Montanari is truly forthcoming and we can see how she takes responsibility for the quality of the work in existence, intending to refine it for a more professional reprinting.

As we proceed to examine punctuation, orthography, and formatting in the following pages, and as we reflect on the matters studied in the previous chapter, let us keep in mind Montanari’s candid admissions regarding the weaknesses of the series in its nascent form. Still, as she mentions (“i volumi da lei menzionati sono stati realizzati tranne ‘Porcaccia’ un po’ alla cavalleggera”; emphasis added), Porcaccia managed to receive all of the editing efforts of Montanari, who is first amongst those that De Nicolo thanks in her ringraziamenti (De Nicolo 156).

2.1 Punctuation

In Moonlight rainbow, Raining stars, and Porcaccia, un vampiro!, words that contain a stressed final syllable, indicated with an acute or grave accent, fluctuate between standard and alternate forms. For example, Perché?, on MR 20, contains the standard acute accent on the e in the coda; then, two lines below, Perchè appears, followed again by perché (MR 20) in the next sentence. This is not at all uncommon in the series, and I would say that the authors simply have no preference or do not acknowledge a difference between grave and acute accents in their own written language, as evidenced in the even distribution of the two forms: Perché (MR 24, 76; RS 50, 51, 58) and Perchè (MR 25, 70, 76; RS 8, 57). This alternation occurs also in Bé, Bè, and Beh

280 Here she invokes D’Annunzio’s dedication to Matilde Serao (1892) in Giovanni Episcopo: “Il cavalleggere abituato a restare in sella dieci ore di séguito e a sciabolare in corsa il vento aveva una specie di ripugnanza fisica contro l’immobilità della sedia, contro l’irritante esercizio della scrittura” (6). 281 See Figure 4 on p. 188.

191 and in the forms of the combined shortened colloquial version of Va bene, containing the redoubled intermediate voiced bilabial stop: Bé (PV 79; RS 30), Bè (RS 34; PV 19), Beh (MR 95, 112; RS 26, 29, 78, 117); Vabbé (PV 87), Vabbè (PV 99). Finally, the third-person singular conjugation of the present indicative of essere is not impervious to these oscillations, even within the same sentence: “É vita, è esistenza” (RS 184) and “É mia sorella” (RS 92). There does not appear to be any preference in Raining stars for an acute accent on the capitalised e, as a handful of other examples confirm: “È solo colpa mia se corre dei rischi” (125); “È difficile” (141); “È così che, spesso, le leggende vengono accettate” (179). The oscillation appears to be random.

There is a significant reliance on ellipses in Moonlight rainbow, but incomplete and short sentences and dependent clauses on their own are not the norm in it. Ellipses exist in dialogue to indicate interruptions or trailing off, but they appear in the narrative as well; in the latter context, ellipses are often inappropriate, used where a comma, period, or no punctuation at all would be better suited:

Qualcosa si mosse nel rettangolo scuro di una delle aperture sul perimetro del locale. …Fino a scoprire la sagoma impietrita di una donna. (MR 62) Infine… l’impatto fu violentissimo. (75) Liz sembrava star bene …a parte quelle occhiaie profonde. (84)

In this paragraph, which follows Liz’s mental processes but is still part of the third-person narration, ellipses reflect the girl’s doubts:

Lei era stata l’unica all’oscuro di tutto… Il grido di Zachary “Parla Tristan!” udito prima di inseguire Ethan nella foresta… […] Forse era stato mentre era andata in cerca di Ethan, che Tristan aveva rivelato i piani del viaggio a Roma… Sembrava che tutti sapessero tranne lei. (87)

On MR 69, Ethan expresses the need for his kin and himself to remain calm, in a direct, neutral way, using the infinitive instead of active verbs as though giving instructions: “Ogni centimetro di pelle prese fuoco. La mente di Ethan sferragliò febbrile. Mantenersi calmi. Mostrarsi addolorati…” This occurs again on MR 70 with “Mantenere l’autocontrollo…” Ellipses are included in the text, as though to indicate how such instructions coexist and merge with other thoughts or what is happening around them; these instructions are embedded in the regular narration, as though Ethan’s mental commands to himself make interjections, like the curated steps of a recipe to avoid disaster: “Non un muscolo si mosse nel viso di Ethan. Mantenere l’autocontrollo… Ma non era facile. Restare immobili fissando un punto lontano senza degnare

192 di uno sguardo Ilona, Leroy, Hilario…” (70). Finally, at the end of MR 73, a medley of these marks demonstrate incomplete and interrupted thought, and even a willed trailing off so as to not complete the logical, disturbing conclusion that inevitably follows: “La conformazione delle pietre era stranamente rotonda, a volte allungata… Altri sassi erano piatti… Era come se fossero… Sembravano… Tibie… peroni… ilei… crani… Non era possibile… Le ciglia di Ethan sbatterono ancora.”

These ellipses, of course, are not at all unusual: as we saw on page 54, Antonelli (ISC 153 and 157) explains that the use of ellipses is common in the writings (and text messages) of young users of SMS technology, who are present in all of the books studied in this thesis. In Mirta- Luna, we see that ellipses are amongst the marks used least frequently; thus, the symbol is not discussed there. However, in A cena col vampiro, the employment of ellipses is common and reflects a use that is typical of youth writings, which, in turn, reflect orality. As Dinale explains, ellipses often indicate “l’atteggiamento emotivamente marcato del mittente [e] ricorrono con grande frequenza nelle lettere giovanili per indicare pausa, interruzione[,] slittamento, implicitazione, allusione, risonanza” (212). Gheno mentions, of the writings of young users of social networks, that many young people exploit the ellipsis to reproduce the effect “di un parlato con continue – e quasi fastidiose – esitazioni” (Social-linguistica 87).282

Ellipses in dialogue are not particularly striking and seem to fulfill the ellipses’ proper purpose, that is, they indicate a trailing off; an incomplete thought process; vulnerability or timidity; or an allowance for another interlocutor to fill in the blanks of an unconfident speaker, as in the following murmuring: “Infine il professor Rochester mormorò: […] «Forse c’è stato un equivoco… Mi spiace che abbiate fatto tutta questa strada…» (MR 92).283 Nevertheless, they may not always be completely necessary and may even contradict the description, the speech contents, and the speech tag that follows, as in Somerset’s first reply: “«Ecco. Lo

282 Gheno includes an amusing side note: “Sulle chat, i puntini erano utili per tenere il turno (come, del resto, asp); esiste, anche in questo caso, un uso metacomunicativo dei puntini, che ha dato origine anche a un verbo, puntinare; puntinare qualcuno significa esprimere il proprio disappunto o la propria perplessità in maniera silenziosa: una silente riprovazione” (Social-linguistica 88). 283 Garavelli distinguishes between puntini di sospensione and punti di reticenza. Discussing the writings of Carlo Emilio Gadda, who would typically use four puntini rather than three, she explains that the quality of reticence “richiama la figura retorica dello stesso nome. Figura del silenzio, la reticenza si esprime o a parole, dichiarando l’interruzione del parlare, oppure con l’atto stesso del tacere, di cui sono traccia sulla pagina i [tre] puntini […]; sono […] segnali di un prolungamento allusivo del discorso nella sfera del non-detto” (112).

193 immaginavo…» fu il commento stridulo di Somerset” (MR 92). A piercing reply does not seem to fit with the ellipsis that serves to describe the comment. Standard use of the ellipsis follows as the dialogue continues:

«Cioè. Se Hector e la guardia sono stati distrutti…» si corresse Zachary. «Ah, è vero allora!» esultò Dracula facendo l’occhiolino a Sofia. Ma Zachary lo interruppe: «Fatemi parlare… Ma, dicevo, non siamo stati noi!» concluse con un lamento. (MR 92)

Particularly striking to the reader, I maintain, are the ellipses in the narration proper. Unlike in the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna, for instance, where all narration is homodiegetic and, thus, any descriptions are also thoughts in the mind of the protagonist, in Moonlight rainbow, the narration is extradiegetic and should reflect confident objectivity. Nonetheless, the author betrays an imposition of her own tone in the text, or, rather, she infuses her supposedly objective narrative with her characters’ doubt and lack of self-assurance, as in the following examples: “Ethan fece un sospiro… e Zachary andò in suo soccorso” (92); “«I Guardiani erano spariti dopo le crociate» confermò Dracula…” (93).

Furthermore, Folgorata and Dooley loosely adhere to orthographic and punctuational trends typical of teen-lit as well as of comic books (Ricci 316), namely the orthographic reproduction of prolonged pronunciation as a means to convey emphasis or incredulity; the split “interrobang” (that is, the symbol that denotes a disbelieving, quizzical exclamation in its blend of question and exclamation marks: ‽) is helpful in reinforcing such sentiments: «Piangi ogni notte. […] Ti rendi conto che cosa significa per lui?!» (MR 42); “La mente di Liz impiegò qualche istante per metabolizzare l’informazione. […] Come? ‘In trance’? Piangere?!” (MR 42); «Eee?» (MR 50); «Ancora?!» (MR 50); «Siii?» (MR 67; note the absence of the grave accents on the replicated s); “Perché voleva strapparla da Ethan?!” (MR 85); “«La notizia della nostra vittoria si è sparsa in tutto il mondo?!» ripetè Tristan incredulo” (MR 87); “«C-c-cento?!» balbettai […]” (RS 96). Only one example from Porcaccia comes to mind that follows this type of ultra-expressive orthography: “Alzai il volume e mi misi a cantare «Forse se smetto di respirare se ne va via da seee…»” (PV 25). Dinale confirms that the adoption of the question mark and of the exclamation mark, repeated in long sequences on their own (??? or !!!) or in combination (?! or !? or even ?!?!), arises due to the influence of the language of advertising, comic books, and other writings of colloquial nature; she concludes that these marks “vengono introdotte a scopo enfatico […] con forte mimetismo orale” (211–212).

194

While superfluous punctuation is an apparent convention in both Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars, in some cases, no punctuation at all is a greater problem: «Non credo che vogliate intrattenerci con una serie inutile di menzogne vero? Prego avvicinatevi faremo molto prima modo mio» (MR 64). No punctuation makes it an awkward first sentence, as “vero” could seemingly be the adjective of menzogne (with incorrect gender and number); also, considering the semantics of menzogne, vero being tight to the preceding word is confusing. Likewise, on MR 36, the potentially confusing «Non è finita vero?» appears, which can be contrasted with Porcaccia’s correctly punctuated «Non glielo hai detto, vero?» (PV 106) and «Hai molta sete, vero?» (107). These sentences, reminiscent of the classic “Let’s eat Grandma!” (instead of what is meant, that is, “Let’s eat, Grandma!”), appear with high frequency in the works of Folgorata and Dooley, and modestly in De Nicolo, with commas that should precede vocatives being almost entirely absent. «Da quanto non mangi Liz?» (MR 98) offers cannibalistic imagery due to the missing comma after mangi, though the context makes it evident that Liz is the addressee; meanwhile, «Ti ho raggiunto Ethan» (RS 34) suggests momentarily that a conjugation error has occurred (i.e., «Ti ha raggiunto Ethan»). Further examples of such confusion before the vocative follow, taken from all three books:

«[…] Ci siamo passati tutti Liz. […]» (MR 11) «Bene e allora ne vogliamo parlare Ethan? […]» (MR 82) «Certo mamma, certo.» (RS 36) «Sean? Dove sei Sean non ti vedo» Perché non vedo niente? (RS 37; bold and missing final period in original) […] non si scappa Liz. (RS 40) «Andrea hai ragione, è sleale.» (PV 34) Lo rincorsi e gli sentii dire: «Vieni fuori pezzo di merda.» (PV 45)

Elsewhere, we see that the authors and/or their editors can and do identify that the vocative can and should be followed by a comma or enclosed with commas; thus, the above examples result either from editorial neglect or ignorance of correct style:

«Come sei fredda, Liz, questa ragazzina mi ha riempito la testa di cose assurde…» (MR 26) «Signora, siamo vampiri» la voce di Pamela era di molti decibel più alta del normale. (MR 86). «Certo, Liz, non ci sono problemi per me, solo, sta’ attenta, ok?» (RS 35) Come no, se non ti avessi conosciuto bene avrei pensato che non mi volevi tra i piedi, Endora. (RS 40)

195

«Cespuglio, Fabio si è di nuovo sbafato tutto» mi spiegò Domenico. (PV 13) «Non ti credo. Ludovico, chi ti sta inseguendo?» (PV 42)

Finally, in other cases still, superfluous commas are inserted where none is necessary, creating pauses where none ought to be and resulting in stilted readings. This phenomenon is present in Folgorata and Dooley only:

Negli occhi delle altre persone, a Loch Ness, Ethan, aveva scoperto di vedere delle immagini. (MR 10) «Non penserai che possiamo considerare queste forze celesti, nostre alleati vero?» (MR 58) La compagna di Dracula, raccolse le rughe in un sorriso altamente compiaciuto. (MR 92)

Notably, in Raining stars, Dooley very consistently, but not infallibly, commits the error of employing a comma after the contrastive coordinating conjunction ma and occasionally after the coordinating conjunction e. It appears that she wishes to give what follows these conjunctions more weight, evidently mimicking the pause that one might make for effect in speech:

Inoltre, anche io volevo fare qualcosa per cambiare la situazione e, anche io non riuscivo a capire cosa. (RS 29) […] certo, erano solo sogni ma, mi davano degli indizi […]. (63) […] sono qui a scriverti e, ancora non so con quale coraggio dirti tutto. (74)

As we have seen, lack of or excess punctuation can certainly lead to misunderstandings or messy readings of sentences, but still other instances of superfluous punctuation make the awkwardness with which Folgorata and Dooley employ these marks evident. In “Sembrava che l’ermafrodita avesse ‘fretta’” (MR 64), sembrava is enough to indicate that something appeared to be true but might not be, so the quotation marks are unnecessary; analogously, “Era come… ‘sentirsi vivo’” (MR 76) reproduces this redundant effect.

Punctuation is not an issue in Porcaccia, in that it fulfills its role unobtrusively: De Nicolo is skilled at using all marks, in most cases, and in the absence of their use, there is usually an explicit purpose. For instance, on PV 33, Andrea imagines a whole family falling prey to Ludovico, and he lists its members, all lumped together, in an asyndeton sans commas to indicate their consideration as a single item whose members are indistinguishable from one another in the homicidal mish-mash: “In quel momento mi attraversò la testa l’immagine di due intere famiglie russe, mamma papà bambini gatto cane e pesce rosso, sgozzate”; this occurs elsewhere, too, as in the frantic “Infilai nel borsone mutande calzini spazzolino dentifricio

196 caricabatterie […]” (87) and “sovrappose le mani per premergli ritmicamente sulle costole contando uno due tre quattro cinque” (127). In few instances does a lack of or incorrect punctuation point to an accidental error (with the exception of the vocative; see above)—though whether on the part of the writer or the editor(s), it is difficult to ascertain, such as in the inwardly directed apostrophe in the shortened versions of ’sta or ’ste, a comma ending a sentence, or a period intervening in the place of a comma, as in following examples:

«Siccome una cosa deve finire. è meglio che non inizi neanche.» (PV 18) «No sono Moira Orfei» risposi […]. (32) «Allora saranno ‘ste luci del cazzo. […]» (98) Ma non era facile per niente, Rialzai la testa. (99)

The play-by-play of Andrea’s daily life as well as of imagined scenarios may be indicated with little or nonexistent punctuation to demonstrate the flow of the scene and the actions in imaginary indirect discourse, as in the following excerpt:

La guardavo e intanto elaboravo il discorso che avrei dovuto fare da lì da poco, tipo: sì signor poliziotto lo so cos’è una effrazione di domicilio con scasso ma vede questo ragazzo così fine ed elegante in realtà è un vampiro feroce e pure incazzato, no veramente non serve il Centro di Igiene Mentale. (51)

At other times, a lack of punctuation reflects the tumbling of thoughts out of the first-person narrator’s mind, a panicky waterfall of desperation where white spaces between words on the page are the only source of order for this transcribed chaos:

Guarda in nota, citava un Catalogo delle Famiglie Illustri di Terra di Bari edito a Trani nel 1688, p.251. Pregai qualunque dio on line che il volume fosse lì. Riaprii lo schedario, ti prego, indice dei titoli, ti prego, cat dov’è cat, ti prego ti prego, sì grazie grazie grazie, mi dà anche questo, per favore? (PV 48)

Sollevò la maglietta e tagliò. Afferrò i lembi e strappò. Non voglio che mi spogli non voglio che mi tocchi lasciami ti prego lasciami. Gli sentivo dire no niente ferite mentre il mio corpo provava a fuggire via ma quello mi bloccò a terra e scattai sul fianco gridando ti prego lasciami. (127)

Indeed, like in Mirta-Luna, the string of thoughts, events, and dialogue intertwine in moments of desperation and panic, leaving it up to the reader to decipher whether some words are actually uttered or are merely expressed in the character’s mind. De Nicolo’s employment of such a technique is effective, as to separate the dialogue formally on the page with quotation marks and new paragraphs would place the utterances or thoughts too far away from the action and impose an order that does not actually exist in the plot. In Andrea’s outburst of panic and terror, the

197 reader, too, loses her breath; just like in real life, there is no break in action in moments of crisis such as this one experienced by Andrea. Everything flows together, and De Nicolo illustrates this accurately and effectively. Concluding Andrea’s liberation, new terrified thoughts tumble forth, reminiscent of Mirta’s plea for air in Non mi uccidere,284 with short, quick sentences reflecting Andrea’s earnest psychological gasping and grasping:

La mano. Le dita. Cemento. Cemento sotto la faccia. Non sentivo dolore, non era buon segno, solo un po’ di puzza ma niente dolore. Un momento, mi faceva anche male la testa e potevo spostare le gambe perciò non stavo morendo. E le orecchie. Si era ristabilita una sorta di stridente armonia dato che ora mi fischiavano tutte e due in stereofonia stordente. (125)

Andammo verso l’uscita. Fuori c’erano rumori e luci intermittenti e fumo che bruciava il respiro e altri incappucciati che si voltavano a guardarmi. Erano teschi neri con le orbite vuote che mi avrebbero fatto altro male. Gridai ma non c’era aria. Dio dov’era l’aria. Diventava tutto nero. Ridatemi la mia aria. Male al petto. Poi più niente. (127)

A similar effect of panicked tension is achieved with single sentences in their own paragraphs, as in the following excerpt, in which Ludovico and Andrea take refuge in the university washroom as they flee from il Mastino:

Passi di corsa nel corridoio. D’istinto spingo Ludovico e insieme a lui mi chiudo nel cesso. In quell’istante qualcuno si fionda nell’antibagno. […] Il qualcuno inizia a spalancare le porte una dopo l’altra. Ho fatto una cazzata. Nella mano di Ludovico è apparso un piccolo coltello molla, mentre sillaba muto L-I-B-R-O. Libro? penso. Che libro? Minchia il libro antico sul davanzale! Ho fatto una grandissima cazzata. (147) 2.2 Orthography

I must preface this section with a renewed acknowledgment of the quasi–self-published nature of the A cena col vampiro series, despite the semi-professional printing of the books by Mamma Editori. The very nature of the books as works of fanfic (primarily) that first appeared online created a unique opportunity for the members of this community to work amongst themselves and maintain creative control over their writings. While this is certainly liberating for the authors, it resulted in inferior products, with a story that was convoluted in Moonlight rainbow, a rushed editing process (notably in Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars), and even the inclusion of a book in a series that has no common narrative threads or inspirations, as with Porcaccia.

284 See excerpt from I.18 on p. 71 in Chapter 2.

198

Simple typographical errors create an incorrect blending of singular and plural articles and nouns or nonexistent words or verb conjugations in Moonlight rainbow: I cuore (MR 24); disatrosa (30); andasero (35); sintilii (43); I profumo (52); Il muscoli (64); sopratutto (64); le valutazione (66); «[…] Altrimenti seremmo ben più numerosi stasera!» (91); Un morsa (95); and “‘Che bella preda ho cacciato per tè?’” (99) featuring not a misspelling but a misuse of the accented homophone tè. Dooley’s novel is equally plagued by a lack of care in proofreading: “il fratello miniore” (RS 25); “Un ringhiò gli risalì gutturale dal petto” (53); «Per stasera sera va bene?» (117); “non le avrevo fatto del male” (145); “Un pugno mi colpi in piena faccia” (257); and “Gratitudine. […] Perché non mi respingeva, perché non mi aveva salvata dal nulla” (263), in which the second non is excessive and contradicts Liz’s reason to feel grateful at all.

Misspellings and typographical errors in proper names are exceedingly common in Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars. The following examples are from Moonlight rainbow: Higlands (10, 65); alle Haway (twice on MR 13), but, later, “a nord delle Hawai” (13); Napali Cost (15); Mathew (25, instead of Matthew); Etan (25); Querite (67) and Quriite (119) instead of Quirite; Elisbeth (97); Tehrisoft (111); Lisabeth (121); and Tistan (316). And in Raining stars, the locality of Lisburn is introduced on RS 101, with Lisburn being an actual place in Ireland and not just an invention to share a name with the protagonist; unfortunately, the resemblance seems to do the author in, as Lizburnmill Hotel appears on RS 109. Littlemill is spelled correctly on RS 38, but it becomes Littelmill on RS 41 before it goes back to its original spelling on the same page. On RS 25, plain old hockey is formalised as Hokey (25) and, remarkably, check-in attains proper- name status as well and changes its spelling to one that is better suited, in the initial fricative, to Italian phonetics: Ceck-in (RS 228 and 229).

Awkward or incorrect line breaks that disobey English syllable breaks are also featured in Folgorata’s poorly edited tome, as in “Cai-rngorm” (MR 10) and “Cam-pbell” (26).285 Finally, «Liz? Ma che cos’hanno tutti ‘sta sera? […]» (97) includes a separated stasera, while just a few pages earlier, the author uses the standard single-word version: «[…] Altrimenti seremmo [sic] ben più numerosi stasera!» (MR 91); all’in su (MR 89) presents another type of this same phenomenon of breaking up words made up of multiple morphemes that have been standardised

285 This occurs once in De Nicolo in pullman on PV 87, an Italian word with English morphological origins, where the line break occurs at pul- rather than pull-.

199 in spelling as forming a single morphosyntactical unit (via the use of apostrophes, for instance). Okay (MR 102), ok (105, 106), and OK (thrice on 116 and 117) coexist in this book. Finally, in Raining stars, Buongiorno and Buon giorno appear one after the other in dialogue (24).

The phonosyntactic redoubling that occurs in some varieties of Italian with the tonic consonant following an unstressed vowel, such as in the of a casa, is manifestly present in the orthography of Porcaccia, both in dialogue and in the narration that reads like speech. Examples include chennesò (PV 33); “Ossì, ero sicuro di aver avuto la giusta intuizione, ennò, ero certo che non si trattasse del maresciallo Testa d’uovo” (47); Eddai (53); Occhei (88); Suvvia (134); tivvù (138); and Eppoi (143).

2.3 Formatting

In general, formatting is standard and little is noteworthy in the three books of this series. Nonetheless, there are some quirks unique to each that are important to indicate. Firstly, in Moonlight rainbow, often there are paragraph breaks where none is needed; there are breaks, too, for emphasis, effect, or drama, but they still are not compulsory where punctuation or an abruptly ended sentence could do the trick. At times, the significance or purpose of breaks between paragraphs that are part of the same narrative moments is unclear; at other times still, but infrequently, lines of dialogue uttered continuously by the same speaker are separated and placed in different paragraphs, confusing the reader and causing her to have to reread the lines to ascertain who is saying what:

«Tanta roba – sorrise Ethan – per un così piccolo pezzo d’Europa.» «Che cosa intendi concretamente per cielo e terra?» Ethan disegnò un ovale nella cenere. (MR 58) Lenith sorrise cerimoniosa: «Nessuno potrà sostenere di non essere al corrente della tua scelta. Ti pare?» «Bene, ci siamo chiariti.» disse infine Lenith. (71) Liz mormorò piano ma incessantemente: «Ti prego Tristan fa che tornino, dimmi che torneranno presto…» E ancora: «Perché non hanno telefonato Tristan? […]» (79)

In the second excerpt, it appears that the line separation is used in place of indicating that the character of Lenith paused or made eye contact to establish that they had, indeed, cleared something up. I do not believe this to be effective at conveying a silent communicative act. While the author tends to tell rather than show in her prose, this missed opportunity to indicate

200 the purpose of the skipped line for the same speaker of dialogue misleads and confuses, causing one to believe that it is a new interlocutor engaging in communication rather than the same one. Additionally, in a great number of dialogue tags in both Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars, the authors erroneously capitalise the first letter of the verb denoting the speech act:

«Chandra?» Obbiettò Ethan senza battere ciglio. (MR 92) «Nulla grazie, siamo in servizio.» Borbottò Billy. (MR 159) «Buona sera, avrei bisogno di una camera, per questa notte». Dissi accennando un sorriso. «Certamente signorina, preferisce una camera fumatori o non?». Mi chiese iniziando a inserire i dati nel computer. (RS 102)

Dooley’s Raining stars is conventionally formatted, in most cases, with some important exceptions. This novel, much like Breaking Dawn286 in the Twilight Saga, features chapters and sections of chapters narrated by a variety of protagonists in the series. Raining stars features unique, mostly monolexical descriptive titles for each chapter (such as “Memory” on RS 37 [and this is one of many English titles, chosen over Italian for reasons that are not readily apparent] and “Gelo” on 201), but most are prefaced with a sentence of italicised bold-faced text that contains details on the state of mind, location, or goal of the narrator who is about to tell this part of the tale. These descriptions are dictated in the third person, but the narration following these indicators is in the first, according to that person’s point of view. This structure presents itself as a means to unequivocally signal to the reader that the text that follows is separate from the narration (unformatted roman text), dialogue (ditto), dreams (bold), déjà-vus (bold), thinking or talking to oneself (between quotation marks), memories (bold), and handwriting (italics). The introductory sentence or paragraph to present the identity and state of the present narrator is almost always followed by an ellipsis, as though to indicate to the reader the ongoing nature of the act that the reader happens upon:

Tristan era costretto in quella boutique di Parigi da ore… (RS 81) Liz era alla guida di una vecchia Peugeot… (93) Com’era strana la vita, pensò Tristan… (103) Ethan vide Elisabeth accasciarsi… (129)

286 In Breaking Dawn, a large section (139–360), introduced as “Book Two” within the 754-page tome, is narrated by Jacob Black, as the narrator of the rest of the series, Bella, is unable to communicate; she is moribund in the midst of giving birth to a half-human, half-vampire child.

201

As mentioned above, another notable formatting choice is that of placing déjà-vus, memories, and dreams in bold type. On RS 8, we see this practice for the first time; Liz, the principal narrator, recalls Ethan’s admonitions when he parted ways with her in firing her from her job at the company he managed:

“Devi andartene Liz.” […] «Non posso» avevo bisbigliato e lui: «Sono io che ti sto mandando via, non puoi scegliere!» […] E mi tornò alla mente il rumore tumultuoso dell’acqua. Un gorgoglio che si affievoliva man mano che la corrente mi sovrastava. Corrente, di cui ero totalmente in balia. E lui, lui che mi salvava. Quella volta io…

The reader will note the quotation marks used in the first line and the angled quotation marks used for dialogue following that. I believe that the emphasis on the first line is that this is the memory of an utterance, like a line of poetry or a song lyric that is burnt into her brain, that brought Liz back to this daydream, which she then relives as though it were current. On RS 23, in the chapter called “Deja-vù,”287 the bold-face content is presented as one of Liz’s dreams that had the unique trait of seeming to be able to “unire passato e presente.”

Another useful formatting choice adopted by Dooley, which is absent in the other works studied, is that of using italics exclusively for written work that the narrator reads or composes.288 For example, on RS 63, Liz discovers the diary of her long-lost beloved Ethan, left behind in the home that he and his family abandoned after Ethan broke up with Liz. Each entry is introduced and concluded with a decorative design (see images on the next page),289 as though to demonstrate the antiqueness or preciousness of the writing; this is contrasted with a more mundane piece of writing, comparatively, such as in Liz’s letter to her mother on RS 74–77,

287 The title, of course, is misspelled; this is congruent with a previous misspelling of the same word on RS 17; the accented u is an understandable mistake, given the accenting patterns of words like tivù in Italian and an apparent tacit understanding of French’s conventional cadence, namely that of words’ being emphasised on the ultimate syllable, independent of accents. 288 Italics are also used for song lyrics, as in Liz’s recalling a song by Guns N’ Roses called “Don’t Cry” (RS 56–57), though all of the lyrics are translated into Italian. The translation of the lyrics is curious and is actually in keeping with the trend of the British characters’ “speaking English in Italian”: if the English they speak is rendered in Italian for the Italian reader, English lyrics naturally should manifest in Italian. This apparent logic, however, is broken with the English lyrics to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” on RS 111. This latter characteristic, that is, of leaving original lyrics in their source languages, is in unity with Palazzolo’s writings; see pp. 82–85 in Chapter 2. 289 Each entry, too, was introduced and concluded only with the decorative design until this formatting choice was apparently forgotten on RS 113, where quotation marks open and close the italicised body of the diary entry.

202 which bears no such introductory or concluding insignia. Examples of each follow, with both designs belonging only to Ethan’s diary entry:

Dublino, dicembre 1805 Sono trascorsi quasi due mesi, da quel giorno. Dal mio ultimo giorno di vita. Dal giorno della mia morte al mio trapasso ad un’esistenza che mi era del tutto ignara, erano passati circa due giorni. […] Sono una creatura della notte. Sono… un vampiro. (RS 64–65)

Cara mamma, sono qui a scriverti e, ancora non so con quale coraggio dirti tutto. Non è semplice ma è l’unica cosa che posso fare al momento… Ho paura che non mi capirai. […] (74)

Finally, when a character is thinking or talking to him- or herself, neither bold nor italics are used; rather, simple quotation marks are employed:

“Pensa Liz” mi dicevo “dove può essere andata una famiglia di vampiri?” (RS 76) “Piccola Liz, ancora qui a torturarmi… in fondo, le cose non sono poi così cambiate. “Dolce amore mio… come il primo giorno che ti ho vista mi trovi a combattere con me stesso. Questa volta è più difficile però…” (141)

Meanwhile, though De Nicolo scarcely features the written words of others in Porcaccia, she does, on a few occasions, feature an aspect of the modern world that Folgorata’s and Dooley’s works do not fully exploit: text messaging.290 Though text messaging was still relatively new at the time of publication of these books, cellular telephones had already become a regular part of the daily lives of these fictional characters and, of course, of the writers of these stories and of the young people in their lives. De Nicolo’s inclusion of this is yet another means by which she draws readers in, making the lives and the environment of her characters more relatable and real. The onomatopoeic Bip Bip291 emitted by the telephone at the receipt of a text message is

290 As the present reader might note on p. 226 of this chapter, while the Rochester vampires employ cellular technology—or, specifically, the Apple iPhone—few instances describe their comprehensive use of them apart from making telephone calls. For example, in Moonlight rainbow, Liz bemoans Ethan’s not having sent her a text message, but as far as the readers know, Ethan and Liz do not even have a history of sending text messages to one another: “Perché Ethan non le aveva mandato neppure un SMS?” (MR 312). 291 See p. 244.

203 indicative of this new technology; it does not squilla or suona to indicate a person’s attempt at contact, but it beeps, an echo of the reader’s own technology. When De Nicolo presents text messages to the reader, these messages are set off in capital letters without opening or closing quotation marks:

Avevo trascorso un’oretta riempiendo tre fogli di pensieri sconnessi e ora me ne stavo col mento sui pugni, indeciso se premere INVIA sul telefono. Il display diceva IO E GLI ALTRI ANDIAMO AL SAMSARA VERSO LE DIECI. TI ASPETTO. Il destinatario era indicato come Lud. Il display si spense. (PV 15) AIUTAMI KRUJE (86; centred in the text)

This convention, however, is not unique to text messages: in the latter part of the narrative, in which Andrea recounts being interrogated by corrupt police officers, yelled commands have an intimidating effect in their space-occupying capital letters:

Lo guardai per mandarlo affanculo e vidi con dispiacere che altri due incappucciati maneggiavano un coso a pinza per forzare le sbarre. Ora avevo capito che andava strillando, diceva FERMI FACCIA A TERRA. Col cavolo, dopo tutta la fatica che avevo fatto per alzarmi. […] Uno variò il ritornello in FACCIA A TERRA E MANI DIETRO LA TESTA. (PV 126)

When not yelled, the commands or instructions given to Andrea in the latter part of the book are blended into the narration seamlessly, as in Mirta-Luna, at times via indirect discourse:292

Ah, in cambio della gentilezza vuoi che ti spighi [sic] che ci facevo io là e cosa stava succedendo. (PV 130) […] mi dici che siete riusciti a scoprire dove e quando sarebbe avvenuta la vendita e che, combinazione, per la stessa destinazione siamo partiti prima lui e dopo io. (131)

Directly quoted discourse is gradually reintroduced in sentence case at this point in the narration, even if yelled, and virgolette reappear: “Tu gridi «Magli, girati» e io ti rivolgo la mia più riuscita faccia da allocco” (131). Stefanelli (119) describes the effect of blending quoted discourse with the descriptive narrative without the employment of indicators to signal the beginning and end of quoted speech, or, notably, without placing a new speech event on a separate line; we saw plentiful examples of this in Mirta-Luna, as this is the prevailing style throughout that series. In such instances of blended narration with discourse, Stefanelli points to the exploitation of coordinating conjunctions to cause speech events and descriptions to overlap, thus creating a “homogeneous” discursive flow (119). While De Nicolo’s method varies, as she blends the

292 See section 2.2 in Chapter 4 (pp. 177–179) for more.

204 quoted, shouted discourse with the narration above, the effect that Stefanelli explains is achieved, and Stefanelli emphasises that this convention is currently well established in contemporary writings by young people (132).293 Moreover, this convention is wholly not novel, nor is it the exclusive territory of youth:294 Antonelli (“Sessanta” 689–690) notes that

questa sorta di monologo indifferenziato, in cui si mescolano alla narrazione brani di discorso indiretto libero e frammenti di discorso diretto inglobati senza segnalatori paragrafematici, è stato utilizzato anche da altri scrittori […] (Arbasino, Mastronardi, Castellaneta, Berto, certo Tabucchi [in addition to Sanguineti]) e si è dimostrato funzionale anche alla caotica e iperrealistica prosa postmoderna di Tondelli.

Finally, in general, De Nicolo’s use of paragraph space and formatting is fairly standard, with paragraphs of three to 10 lines exploring a unified topic (though a 26-line paragraph on PV 125 and 126 is amongst the exceptions), changing only for dialogue. Like in Mirta-Luna, some paragraphs do contain only one sentence or even just a few words or a phrase; this is usually in crisis, when thoughts are bouncing back and forth without any true link between them.295 Worth noting, however, is De Nicolo’s creative use of paragraphs to intersperse mental tangents that continue while action or dialogue is happening, and its effectiveness is remarkable, in line with her custom to show rather than tell. Indeed, an option employed by other authors might include expressions of contemporary action, such as mentre or durante, or these mundane thoughts might be excluded altogether. De Nicolo uses this technique often enough to make it recognisable to the reader, but infrequently enough that it does not distract or irritate the reader. One example, from PV 108–109, has already been described in Chapter 4 on page 177; similarly formatted, in the following excerpt, Andrea seeks to comfort an ailing Ludovico while first recalling the mating rituals of octopuses, and then imagining where he would normally be at that time of day:

Ludovico boccheggiava rannicchiato su un fianco. Mi chinai su di lui e gli scostai i capelli dalla faccia. «Piano. Cerca di respirare lentamente.» Da una vecchia puntata di Quark: negli ippocampi, è il maschio a covare le uova. Lo ripulii del sangue col bordo della felpa. «Sono andati via, calmati.» Invece nei polpi, al termine del corteggiamento, il maschio inserisce l’ectocotile sotto il mantello della femmina. […] «Fa male ma sei vivo. Hai capito? Sei vivo. Solo questo importa.» […]

293 See Stefanelli’s discourse on p. 68 and in the corresponding footnote. 294 For more on direct and indirect discourse and current conventions for relating discourse in writings for and by young adults, see section 5.2 in Chapter 2 (pp. 64–71). 295 See excerpts on pp. 70–71.

205

A quell’ora sarei dovuto essere a casa a studiare. «Devo saperlo, capisci? È tutto vero? Stai per saltarmi alla gola?» Storia contemporanea o Antropologia. «Non…non sono un animale» tossì, accartocciandosi di più. «Posso dominarmi.» (114)

3 Lexicon

As I mention in Chapter 3 in the introduction corresponding to the section on the lexicon in Mirta-Luna (page 98 onward), lexical sources of inspiration are truly varied in the works of young-adult romances, particularly in the young-adult undead romance, influenced as it is by one of its parent genres: horror. This is apt to describe De Nicolo’s work most of all, as the plot unfolds in a contemporary and modern Italy in the presence of characters who live, love, and consume in a globalised world shared with that of the reader. Unlike Enrico Brizzi, who was a teenager when he wrote the coming-of-age tale Jack Frusciante è uscito dal gruppo, the authors of the books studied in this dissertation do not fall within the same age bracket as their young fictional characters do. Nonetheless, the writers, to varying degrees—with De Nicolo and Palazzolo having the greatest success—succeed in mirroring the speech and thought patterns of young people, which includes the tendency to exaggerate. I invite the present reader to revisit section 3.1 in Chapter 2 (pages 98–108) and to keep its contents in mind when exploring the linguistic habits of the fictional individuals studied in this section.296

This section, like in Chapter 2, is the heftiest section of all, as the lexicon is the richest and most welcoming sector of the language of young adults: it perennially rejects, invites, absorbs, and re- forms new members. As Coveri explains, “l’aspetto più vistoso di LG [lingua dei giovani] è il lessico,” adding that “non meno interessante è la formazione delle parole in cui si declina la particolare ludicità e creatività di LG,” which includes “deformazione giocosa (per esempio, in ambito scolastico, di nomi e cognomi di compagni e professori, profio, zuccherdosa), spesso sino al calembour (educazione tisica, ricremazione)” (20). Examples of this type are present in the

296 For further reading, see Ambrogio and Casalegno, Coveri, Gheno, and Marcato in particular.

206 nicknames that Andrea bestows to comrades and enemies.297 Jocularity, hyperbole, and even irony are present in the works of Folgorata, Dooley, and De Nicolo to varying degrees: “[a]ltri fenomeni che LG condivide con la semantica dei gerghi sono aspetti retorici come la metafora scherzosa, la metonímia […], la parafonía (sono nella melma), la coprolalía (settore in cui, secondo le inchieste dirette, sembrano essere particolarmente impegnate le ragazze [!])” (20).298

The playful nature of giovanilese is evident in Porcaccia and is outlined in the section that immediately follows, and this playfulness and constant reusing of certain taboo terms inevitably leads to a loss of meaning, a rebalancing in terms of semantic weight: regarding coprolalia and, specifically, the lexeme cazzo, Coveri claims that “[s]i deve inizialmente a LG la desemantizzazione, lo ‘svuotamento’ semantico che ha detabuizzato parole come casino, cazzo […] passate in pochi anni anche al repertorio pubblico, nel linguaggio della politica e nella lingua comune” (20). Thus, perhaps it is not definitively surprising that Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars, works of somewhat “pure” romance fiction, welcome coprolalic lexemes.

While wholesale English borrowings and anglicisms were not as present in this series as I might have expected, it still goes without saying that, amongst words borrowed from other languages and dialects, “la fa da padrone, come ci si può attendere, l’inglese” (Coveri 22).

3.1 Giovanilese, Colloquialisms, and Aspects of Orality

On the very first page of Porcaccia, un vampiro! (5), the following expressions appear: qualcosina, stronzata, “non me n’è mai fregato,” “dopo ciò ch’è successo,” ‘sta cosa, and “mi fa proprio schifo.” This page and these examples alone are exemplary of the tone of this book. De Nicolo, in having Andrea as the first-person narrator, adds a bias to the telling of his adventures, one that exists in Mirta-Luna as well. However, whereas in Mirta-Luna there are sparse objective third-person narrations, it is through Andrea’s point of view only that the reader receives knowledge of his experience. Thus, it is appropriate that he recount his story as he knows best, subjectively, conveying it to the reader as he would to a close friend.

Of the three books studied in this chapter, Porcaccia’s dialogue is, by and large, the most

297 See pp. 237–238. 298 See section 3.4 on pp. 222–225.

207 realistic and colloquial; Porcaccia is also the book that is least faithful to romance tropes and conventions and features a different fictional backdrop than the rest of the books in the A cena col vampiro series. Thus, the dialogue is less flowery and more mimetic—that is, free from guilt of this cardinal sin indicated by dialogue writer and editor Lara Willard:

[Using] dialogue as an information dump. “Remember when…?” “I know that…” “You know…” Anytime a character says one of the above, you know that the dialogue is highly contrived. If the character already knows it, then why is he or she stating the obvious?

De Nicolo inconspicuously provides information about characters or situations; she rarely, if ever, overloads dialogue with information. Only Ludovico’s description of his vampiric traits comes to mind as an information-heavy excerpt,299 but it exists in that way only because it was part of an agreement that he had made: «Andrea[,] hai ragione, è sleale. Io conosco molte cose di te mentre tu osservi solo il mio attuale costume di scena» (PV 34). Thus, quick, snarky, clever, and, of course—given the demographic of the speakers—hyperbolic exchanges permeate the work and read like transcriptions of real dialogue between young adults in Italy:

«[…] Hai un secondo? Devo dirti una cosa» aggiunse indicando col mento alla sua destra, verso il bagno. «Beh?» feci, seguendolo. […] «Mi sto rivedendo con Maria» disse a voce più bassa. «Dai!» mi meravigliai, «sono contento.» «Stiamo andando con calma, stavolta.» «Bravi.» «Soprattutto io. Dopo il casino che ho combinato non ho il diritto di metterle fretta.» «Dove hai trovato tutta ‘sta saggezza?» «Un tre×due all’Oviesse.» «La smetti di saltellare? Vabbè l’amore ma sembri un tarantolato.» «No, è che devo pisciare. Ti chiamo così parliamo come si deve» concluse spingendo la porta. (PV 11–12) Trovai Loris e Domenico in cucina. «Buongiorno» salutai. «E che cazzo» ringhiò Loris sbattendo l’anta della dispensa. «Molto bene, grazie per lo squisito e corale interessamento. E voi, tutto bene?» «Cespuglio, Fabio si è di nuovo sbafato tutto» mi spiegò Domenico. «Io quello lo strozzo» continuò Loris, lungo e schizzato, camminando avanti e indietro. […] «Stavolta gli annodo la lingua al balcone.» «Bravo, colpirne uno per educarne cento.» «Eppure io non l’ho mai visto razziare» obiettò Domenico. «Perché fa Attila solo quando non c’è nessuno» gli chiarì lui.

299 See the excerpt from PV 34–35 on pp. 162–163.

208

«Ragazzi» rincarai, «vi siete accorti che ci hanno di nuovo fregato lo zerbino?» La faida con la famiglia del secondo piano durava da un anno. Non ricordavo chi avesse iniziato coi dispetti cretini ma oramai la guerra da fredda s’era fatta rovente. (13)

This realistic discursive skill is a true sign, I believe, of the author’s keen, perceptive ear to contemporary oral communication. Nothing seems forced in Andrea’s exchanges with his peers; Andrea maintains his characteristic wit, dry humour, and informality even in his exchanges with Ludovico, though he and the vampire doubtlessly each speak in different registers and varieties of Italian. For example, cursing himself for pursuing Ludovico’s call for help, Andrea reproaches himself with “le peggio cose”: “Dissi a me stesso le peggio cose e ci entrai” (86). In contrast, Ludovico’s decidedly standard, sometimes formal, and unmarked variety of Italian that is devoid of curse words, due to his age and his mother tongue’s origins in the 1600s (PV 62–63), stands apart from the speech patterns of Andrea and his peers. De Nicolo’s characters possess individuality dictated by their manner of speaking and in their actions, which De Nicolo encodes with naturalness and fluidity. The lingo employed by Andrea and his friends is liberally salted with turpiloquio, both in positive and negative contexts, which reflects modern ways of communication that are foreign to Ludovico’s archaic and more conservative sensibilities.

More examples imitating orality follow from Porcaccia, un vampiro!: “avrebbe anche potuto darmela una mano” (PV 6), with a right dislocation; «Mooh» as a reaction to bad news related to paying bills (14); «Auau!» (16); «Che c’hai?» (23); «Mmh-mmh» (38); «Tu la vita la rubi» (54), with a left dislocation; «[…] Ma guarda che c’hai una faccia di corno che non finisce più!» (61); «Ormai c’ho l’anticorpo modello Mastrolindo» (75); finally, the epanalepsis in «Lo rianimo io, lo rianimo» (17) is another indication of De Nicolo’s confident reproduction of orality. In the following excerpt, Andrea is caught between denying his current state of suffering and beginning to realise that he cannot ignore the facts of his environment. He starts with an objective third- person generalisation and quickly switches to the informal generalised second-person singular: “non è niente, sto bene, ma convincere se stessi è impossibile quando ogni cellula del tuo corpo ti grida che sei un bugiardo, che non sei mai stato così lontano dallo star bene come in quel momento” (113–114). Additional examples follow whose origins lie in giovanilese, or simply colloquial Italian that started as giovanilese:300 frikkettoni (PV 11); “la testa infilata nel giaccone

300 “Quanto alle voci di ‘lunga durata’, s’intendono quegli elementi la cui continuità nella LG è assicurata dalla documentazione che rimonta agli anni Settanta o anche prima (per quelli che sono i dati a disposizione), come cotta

209 per il freddo bestia” (20); rimorchiare (40); bidonare (41); “fatto a cocuzza” (42); polli danarosi (42); si scompisciò (44); “Onestamente, era una vera palla” (85); i Caramba (137, 139, 149).

Hyperbole, as explored earlier in this thesis, is a vital trait of the language of youth. In Porcaccia, Andrea and his friends liberally sprinkle their speech—and Andrea, his diaristic narration—with delightful hyperbole. In Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars, hyperbolic expressions and metaphors are of a more obvious variety, summoning potential heart attacks in the face of fear, for example, or even imagining one’s loving relationship as the most intense that has ever existed. On MR 216, Ethan, who is in hiding, attempts to keep his presence a secret from Somerset Blake. Trembling in fear, he notices his vampiric heart, which does not beat (MR 8); he thinks to himself: “Il cuore: se non arrivava un infarto ora, non sarebbe arrivato mai più.”

Furthermore, sarcasm, hyperbole, irony, and profanity infuse Andrea’s narration, both in dialogues with his friends and in narrated descriptions:

«Un’altra cosa» continuai la fiera delle buone novelle, spostando il peso da un piede all’altro, «centodieci euro per eccedenza d’acqua.» (PV 13) All’inizio avevo pianto come un agnello la Domenica delle Palme. (16) «Hei Giò, ti sei innamorato?» chiese Loris, che l’alcol rende amabile come un tafano. (17) «Scusami ma sto veramente male» biascicò [Loris]. […] «È la quinta volta che vomito. Mi sento morire. […] Ti prego, vai in farmacia.» […] Loris, in ginocchio con la testa nella tazza, produceva il rumore di un Kalashnicov caricato a pomodori marci. «Vuoi un dottore o un esorcista?» gli chiesi. «Ggghaa…» «Ho capito, torno subito.» (19) «Ho appena perso dieci anni di vita» pigolai. (42) «[…] Bé, perché ora mi guardi come fossi la Madonna?» «Secondo me sei fuori come un citofono.» «Bel rispetto per tua madre. […]» (79)301

‘innamoramento’, figo ‘bel ragazzo’, (essere una) frana ‘(essere un) disastro’, secchione ‘studiosissimo’, leccare ‘arruffianarsi i professori’ ed altre (cf. Cortelazzo 306). Considerato il fatto che riguardano in specie il campo semantico relativo all’esperienza scolastica, si può supporre che la trasmissione di tali parole da una generazione all’altra sia favorita dalla scuola che istituzionalizza determinati comportamenti. Tuttavia, in parte sono voci filtrate nella lingua comune, perciò sarebbero elementi da attribuire alla componente costituita dall’italiano colloquiale e non a continuità nella LG” (Marcato 567). 301 His mother even reproaches him for his sarcasm during this exchange:

210

Se cado sarò molto più che fottuto, e profetizzo la targa commemorativa QUI PERÌ UN COGLIONE. (148)

Some truly interesting inclusions underline the “Italianness” of the book by De Nicolo—an Italianness that I will illuminate in the conclusion of this thesis. These inclusions truly expose the multifaceted lexical variety of the modern Italian young person, a lexical variety that reflects the cosmopolitan nature of young Italians’ culture, which is inherently influenced by the exposure to the world via the Internet but also stays true to the customs, values, idioms, and languages of their place of birth or residence, namely with regard to their dialect.

On PV 11, responding to his friend’s “saluto romano” of “Buondì, camerata,” Andrea cheekily replies, “A soreta.” Though the cheekiness and irreverence of this expression are ostensible, the semantic weight is not absolutely clear to this non-native speaker: is this expression vulgar or is it merely a mildly rude response to be used in the company of close friends? It struck me as containing the vulgarity of the now-classic retort of “Yo’ momma” in North-American English,302 a response that says little but can be playfully insulting (or outright offensive) in the correct context when it ends conversation. Like with A soreta, it points to an intimate knowledge of the listener’s female relation, knowledge that a close friend should not have or seek to have.303 Though they are by no means final authorities, Yahoo Answers304 and Word Reference305 offer the perspectives of native speakers who use and hear these expressions and can explicate the semantic weight of them. On the surface, however, A soreta is merely a reproduction of the dialect expression present in many southern Italian dialects of “[to] your sister” (Sotiri 104); the preposition a placed before the noun with the affixed possessive adjective is the norm for

«Se ci pensi, è una situazione piuttosto comune» [disse lei]. «Comunissima» bofonchiai. «Non fare il sarcastico […].» (79) 302 Or “Yer mom” or “Yo’ mutha,” depending on one’s dialect. 303 Such expressions as Yo’ momma or A soreta are tacitly patriarchal, as invoking an intimacy with a friend’s or colleague’s female relations points to how the latter are considered off-limits to close male associations; these females can consciously or subconsciously be viewed as property that cannot be touched or “accessed” without the permission of male family members—even in 2018. 304 See “Perchè si dice ‘salutame a’ soreta’?” 305 See “Salutame a’ soreta.”

211

Apulian dialects (with which the Barese Andrea certainly is familiar) when the direct object refers to a human (Sobrero and Tempesta 29), whereas standard Italian omits the preposition before human direct objects. Considering Andrea’s flippant relationship with his male friends, I believe that the riposte is of the rude but still facetious variety.

Marcato offers an explanation for the comfortable place that the dialect—in this case, a Southern dialect—has in the young person’s colloquial idiolect: “L’impiego di parole dialettali che, si è detto, rapporta il gruppo alla realtà locale, ha funzione scherzosa ed espressiva come mostra la frequenza di dialettalismi nella designazione di caratteristiche personali che il gruppo ritiene negative” (Marcato 565). That being said, Andrea’s use of A soreta, I believe, plays less to any negativity that may be associated with the boy via the dialect he employs; instead, it takes advantage of the diastratic inequality initiated with the “saluto romano” of Buondì, camerata, matching this salute with a simultaneously low-register and insulting rebuke. As Michele Cortelazzo (303) explains in Marcato (565), “Le voci dialettali (solitamente adattate morfofonologicamente all’italiano) possono essere soggette ad un ‘trapasso da una funzione denotativa a una scherzosa, espressiva od emotiva, [che] comporta spesso una modifica del significato’.” Nonetheless, some dialectal words remain an integral part of the narration, which maintains a conversational tone, as is the case with inguacchiare in “mi inguacchiava gli appunti” (PV 11)306 and the wonderful calque in “Fermati tua sorella, penso io” (154).

In many of Andrea’s exchanges with his friends, whether or not dialect is present, the jocular nature of his language is clear, through lexical choice, sarcasm, and hyperbole. This is also made evident via code-mixing or code-switching,307 but not with dialect: the switching of codes

306 Absent from Zingarelli, this dialect term appears in Treccani: “inguàcchio s. m. [der. del napol. inguacchiare «sporcare, lordare», diffuso in varie forme in diverse parlate merid.], region. – 1. Sporcizia, cosa sporca. 2. fig. a. Lavoro malfatto e abborracciato […]” (“Inguacchio”). Indeed, this is supported by two Neapolitan dictionaries, one of which has three related entries: “’Nguàcchio s. m.: «bruttura, lordura, sudiciume; macchia (su abiti o fogli di carta)»; etim.: vd. ’Nguacchià” (D’Ascoli 464). Given Andrea’s Neapolitan origins (see the excerpt from PV 24 on p. 236), it is fitting that he uses this term. Nonetheless, as indicated in the Treccani entry above, inguacchio is not restricted to Naples but is used also in other parts of Southern Italy (like in Puglia, where the story is set), as this Barese dictionary confirms—with the infinitive form rather than the noun: “nguacchià [v.] sporcare - macchiare - macchiarsi - macchiarsi la coscienza” (Barracano 109). 307 This is reminiscent of maccheronic blends of Latin and Vulgar Italian for the sake of parody. Andrea, just like maccheronic poets, is not attempting in his code-mixing to raise his register or to sound more erudite; his erudition is apparent, but the code-mixing is playful and ironic, as contemporary colloquial Italian does not usually blend archaic terms with contemporary ones in common speech, nor does it inappropriately call modern structures by Galilean terms. I believe it may be par for the course, so to speak, for an educated young person: one lives the life of

212 between standard Italian and older varieties of the language paint the context with playful irony. Some examples of De Nicolo’s clever syntactic creations follow; the majority of these feature traits of orality, facilitating the smooth flowing of the text, and blend registers maccheronically, sometimes indicating a form of metaliterary awareness but mostly pointing to the boy’s literary education.308 As Coveri explains, “una lingua affine all’italiano”—like Spanish, French, or, as in Porcaccia, Latin or 16th-century Italian—“si presta meglio ad una deformazione ‘maccheronica’, ironica e scherzosa” (22). I invite the reader to observe this comical rendering of a conversation about whether pursuing love is better to be avoided because it will indubitably end or whether it is worthwhile to seek out for the enriching experience, regardless of how it might end; Andrea believes the former, to which Loris philosophises. This analogy of love via ice cream and diarrhea finally ends with a formal nod to Galileo Galilei:

«È una puttanata. Per restare nei tuoi argomenti profumati, io ho davanti una bella coppazza di gelato tempestata di noccioline e cioccolato fuso e dico, no, meglio non mangiarla, altrimenti mi viene la colica. Sai invece che faccio io? Me la sbafo con la massima libidine e se poi devo passarmi un’ora a piangere sul cesso, pazienza. Tanto di questo non si muore.» «Di diarrea o d’amore?» chiese Stefano, che forse aveva perso il filo. «Tutt’e due» tagliò corto Loris. Seguirono le dissertazioni sui due massimi sistemi testé espressi nonché la suzione di quasi tutto il nettare di zio Jack. (PV 19)

It is not just in the code-switching that De Nicolo achieves comic effect but in the juxtaposition of heartfelt topics with coarse themes to ultimately make a valid spiritual point. More examples of maccheronic blends follow: “Finalmente Venere [referring to Ludovico who had just finished showering] emerse dalle acque, chiuso nel suo involucro consueto di indumenti neri e pesanti” (60); “Ancora quarantacinque minuti e quel supplizio sarebbe finito, deo gratias” (85); “non volevo pensare né immaginare e meno che mai sognare, ergo con tutto quel riposo ho riacquistato a mia volta un aspetto umano” (138).

an academic using one register (and consuming formal texts that employ high registers) and a casual, informal life amongst friends and family using mid or low registers. It is natural that the two registers will sprout up alongside each other in situations of experimentation and even in spontaneous communication for the sake of creating metalinguistic humour by placing unlike lexemes, from various codes and subcodes, alongside each other. 308 Other such instances of metaliterary notes include Andrea’s self-identification with Orpheus, as Ludovico’s call for help induces Andrea’s venturing into unknown and potentially very dangerous territory: “Sono Orfeo, pensai. Sto scendendo agli Inferi, e speriamo di non venirne digeriti, per recuperare un vampiro tossico bisessuale nevrotico e suicida potenziale. Bella botta di culo” (PV 89).

213

Liz and Ethan, despite their youth—or superficial youth—speak in a register that is about as marked as that of a newscaster or journalist. Nonexistent personality and little “spunk” characterise the dialogue in both Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars; interlocutors and lines of dialogue could easily be switched around without resulting in any utterances’ seeming truly uncharacteristic coming out of the mouth of another. There are scant exceptions to this: Endora, whose speech is sometimes coloured by the warmth of informality, lends an intimacy and realness to her speech that allow readers to warm up to her, however fleetingly. Raining stars, being poor in dialogue, contains few traits that lend realness to the characters and the plot via characteristics associated with orality, with expressions like Beh (RS 117) and Uffa! (139) being amongst the most prominent indicators; Moonlight rainbow shares a similar fate, with such interjections and sparse dislocations betraying the influence of speech in a welcome manner: «Di eliminarla non se ne parla» (MR 30); «Ecco. Lo immaginavo…» (92); «Beh! Magari chiamala, domani» (145).

It does not take long for readers to take note of these diverse styles. Nonetheless, a last instance of giovanilese’s being inserted into De Nicolo’s linguistically interesting and realistic narrative at first escaped my notice due to how plainly in sight it was; it lies in the main character’s nickname: Cespuglio. He is given this seemingly innocuous moniker for the mop of hair on his head,309 but as readers dive in to the daily life of this young man, they come to recognise his habits with his friends, one of which is that of smoking marijuana: “Domenico raccolse dalle mie dita la canna che avevo rollato amorevolmente” (PV 28). Given this practice, it is relatively unsurprising but truly amusing that Andrea’s nickname contains a double-entendre, but it is one that may survive only in Southern Italy: cespuglio, in the language of youth, and possibly specifically in the language of youth of southern regions of Italy (such as in Basilicata, the place of origin of Gaetano Cappelli, whose novel Parenti lontani [1996]310 uses this word with its alternative meaning), can mean “Erba, marijuana” (Ambrogio and Casalegno 96).

3.2 Droghese

Still, drug use or abuse is not a major plot point in this series, though alcohol use and, in a few

309 See the excerpt from PV 7 on p. 237 for an explanation of this nickname. 310 Gaetano Cappelli, Parenti lontani (Milan: Mondadori, 1996).

214 cases, alcohol abuse are featured in Porcaccia. One third of the way through the novel, Andrea seeks out Ludovico and finds him practically comatose, with bruises on the inside of his elbow, a tourniquet around his arm, and 5-milligram vials and a syringe on a nearby table, with all four vials emptied of what Andrea knew—“causa la mia breve esperienza di infermiere oncologico” (PV 52)—to have once been filled with “morfina long acting somministrabile per via parenterale” (52). He panics when he realises that “[i]l dosaggio della morfina è di circa 10 mg. per 70 chili di peso, quindi se si era sparato tutto assieme era in overdose” (52). This language of intravenous drugs is shared with Mirta-Luna, though the substances used differ. Additional examples of droghese in the text are limited, but prominent ones include «Hai fretta di farti, che ne so, di candeggina?» (72); l’acido muriatico (72); “Che si facesse pure di tutti gli oppiacei conosciuti e ci rimanesse sotto” (73); “gli avevano iniettato della roba” (133). Though alcohol use is not inherently part of youth culture or restricted to it, Andrea indicates its acceptance and abuse as a coping mechanism by him and his peers: “pensai che se mi fossi sconvolto a sufficienza, con un po’ di fortuna quella notte non avrei sognato. Un sonno alcolico nero e piatto, denso come petrolio, che mi avvolgesse e mi ingoiasse” (PV 40).

3.3 Sex

As mentioned elsewhere in this thesis and in this chapter, the romance novel is typically very conservative and traditionally focusses only on heterosexual relationships. Furthermore, when not simply alluding to intimate moments (which Meyer does exclusively and without description), sexual encounters between characters exploit euphemisms or gentle lexical or syntactic variants to describe acted or imagined sexual acts. This, of course, is not the case in Porcaccia, as we will see below, nor is it in Mirta-Luna. Interestingly, the works of both Palazzolo and De Nicolo together address formerly sexual taboos that were usually absent from and forbidden in romance novels, namely that of homosexual intimacy and sexuality.

Despite their comparatively more conventional romance format, Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars do feature moments of explicit sex, regaling readers of Twilight and other tame romances with the erotic scenes that were omitted from those books—that is, moments of eroticism occur in Twilight, but the author intentionally jumps from one scene to the next in her narrative to find the characters aglow in post-coital delight, leaving the preceding acts to the reader’s imagination. Still, Folgorata and Dooley use terminology that is generally objective, carefully euphemistic,

215 and free from vulgarity. Like their predecessors in Twilight and certainly most other romance novels, a buildup of tension permeates suggestive movements, devious touches, playful exchanges, and longing glances. While, in many cases, ellipses are superfluous in these books by Folgorata and Dooley,311 in intimate scenes, they are employed perfectly to add suggestion and wonder and to give desires the space of fantasy. The first such intimate encounter is described in detail in Moonlight rainbow in a scene by a lake surrounded by wooded areas:

Nuda, con la pelle smagliante come rubino, [Liz] risalì a riva. […] I palmi detersero dal viso l’acqua in eccesso. Il corpo si distese sulla roccia piatta in posizione supina. I seni protesi verso il cielo, i capezzoli tormentati dal sole mentre il vento scompigliava delicato il ciuffetto di peli. […] […] Ethan era venuto da lei infine e incombeva a braccia conserte. Infuocato, scolpito nel granato… Il corpo slanciato e muscoloso… Era comparso all’improvviso. Senza un rumore. Con sguardo sottile, gli occhi come due lame d’un cupo color sangue la fissarono diritto nelle pupille.312 […] La gola di Liz deglutì. […] [L]’urlo di desiderio improvviso che levatosi dal corpo dominava il guazzabuglio di sensazioni. […] Con un dito [Ethan] le sfiorò un capezzolo. […] [Liz] [a]llungò una mano e lo accarezzò tra le cosce […]. [L]a fronte rubino si chinò lentamente fino ad appoggiarsi sulla gola di Liz. L’alito tiepido scivolava sulla pelle. Le dita sottili di Liz distesero sulla nuca di Ethan massaggiandola dolcemente. […] […] Le mani scivolarono lentamente lungo il ventre di Liz e si insinuarono tra le gambe. (MR 45–46)

For some romance authors, like Meyer herself, the line would have been crossed at the nudity itself; here, Folgorata builds up the tension with breath, touch, and slow, deliberate movements, and she maintains this tension by placing single actions in separate paragraphs. The tension builds as the flames of passion are kindled, and Folgorata even has Liz notice the tension itself: “«Portami con te» gli ripeté Liz con le labbra vicino all’orecchio. L’alito caldo scivolò lungo il collo di Ethan e Liz percepì nettamente che la tensione si era fatta incontrollabile” (46). The female protagonist is insistent, just like Bella is with Edward; her repeated desire contains a double-entendre befitting the scene, with venire connoting a verb of motion but also the colloquial meaning of “[r]aggiungere l’orgasmo” (Ambrogio and Casalegno 483), setting up the moments to follow:

311 See pp. 191–192. 312 As I mention on pp. 161 and 172–173, there is a persistent insistence on vampiric eyes in this book but also in the series—the series of the vampiri dagli occhi viola, as book covers indicate—and the colour of the eyes is transient, denoting the vampire’s current emotion. It is presumed that this red colour, which is not the permanent colour of Ethan’s eyes, denotes passion or anger, as this meeting between Liz and Ethan follows an argument.

216

«Voglio venire con te» ripeté ostinatamente mentre le labbra di Ethan afferravano avidamente un capezzolo imprimendovi un bacio umido e ritmato. Ethan rotolò di lato, portandola con sé finché, con pressione delicata ma decisa sulla spalla, non la fece girare con il ventre sulla pietra. Le labbra di Ethan ora percorrevano la nuca di Liz e il suo corpo aderiva perfettamente a quello sotto di sé. Le labbra le morsero leggermente il lobo di un orecchio […]. Un brivido potente si impadronì del corpo di Liz. La virilità di Ethan non accennò a voler percorrere la sua via. Liz ne sentiva la forza sulle natiche ma Ethan sapeva farla attendere. […] La mente tratteneva a stento l’urgenza tutta fisica che la possedeva. Ethan si appoggiò leggermente là, dove il desiderio di Elisabeth silenziosamente lo chiamava. (MR 46)

Seasoned readers of romance or those who are familiar with the genre’s conventions will readily notice the euphemisms and creative terms employed to impose modesty on the characters’ sexuality, as though placing a metaphorical fig leaf over the all-too-direct anatomical lexemes used to refer to human reproductive organs. Indeed, virilità and desiderio, for male and female genitalia respectively, are established classics in the genre not just in Italian but in English as well, though the anthropomorphising of Liz’s “desire” calling to Ethan silently is noteworthy (and enough to make one giggle).

Though this build-up of tensions and desires lasts two pages, Folgorata does not leave Liz or her readers hanging; unlike Meyer, she gives both exactly what they want:

Il corpo di Ethan fu scosso da un tremore ritmato molto simile al battito di un cuore impazzito. E un lento scivolamento ondulatorio guidato dalla mano, ridusse il corpo di Liz ad un fascio di fibre… Le narici dilatate e la gola era secca… «Sì è vero soffro per questa condizione… – balbettò roca – Ma se questo è ciò che la vita aveva in serbo per me lo prendo… […]» disse con un filo di voce mentre lui non accennava ad entrare. […] Con un balzo Ethan si sollevò, girandola sulla schiena: il volto di Elisabeth era trasfigurato. Le pupille di Ethan si dilatarono, viola come l’abisso dell’oceano. E rimasero attonite per un istante in contemplazione. Il volto di Elisabeth aveva perduto ogni compostezza; le labbra erano gonfie, le narici dilatate, e i seni… Ethan contrasse la mascella e si chinò verso di lei[.] (46–47)

At this point, he stops, essentially to convince Liz, his vampiric lover, that being a vampire for eternity is not what she wants, that she should consider becoming human again—which is possible in this series—and that immortality comes with immense pain. To give force to his imperiousness, his actions speak louder than words: “«[…] Arriva un punto in cui bisogna puntare i piedi e ribellarsi al proprio destino…» [L]a lingua si insinuò tra le labbra di Liz e lui entrò deciso” (47), with this “entry” referring to the culminating act of penetration. The scene ends there, separated by one line of white space on the page before the scene skips to the idyllic

217 and tranquil aftermath of this passion. The quiet and peaceful ambiance of the forest give greater strength to the juxtaposed passion and power of the previous scene:

Le luci tra le foglie degli alberi durante il ritorno al maniero, erano come gemme multicolori appese nella vegetazione. Ethan teneva Liz per mano come quando lei era umana. Si materializzavano da un albero al successivo in un fluire continuo e piacevole come musica. (47)

Intimate scenes in Raining stars are, comparatively, more tame and leave more to the imagination than equivalent moments in Moonlight rainbow. Whether the narrator is a male or a female (as Raining stars has multiple narrators), reveries or descriptions of physical intimacy between Ethan and Liz place emphasis on sensuality rather than sexuality, on desire and romance rather than sexual passion and intercourse. Alone without the woman—rather, the ragazza, as he continually insists—that he left behind, Ethan, on RS 145–148, recalls human Liz to memory and questions his judgment about abandoning her as cruelly as he had, and he doubts his sense of supposed altruism in wishing her happiness with another mortal mate. In imagining how Liz used to make him feel, physically, Ethan masochistically accepts the physical pain that her human blood causes her, just so he can be with her:

Avrei dato tutto l’oro del mondo per poter sentire, ogni momento, per sempre, per il resto della mia eternità, la gola arsa dal desiderio provocato dalla vicinanza di Liz. Sarebbe stato un dono, per me. Il più bel regalo che avrei potuto desiderare. Perché quel bruciore mi avrebbe ricordato che lei era viva. Che lei era con me. Che non le avrevo [sic] fatto del male. Che la sua anima era salva, limpida come era sempre stata. Ma erano solo […] sciocchi pensieri di un vampiro innamorato. (RS 145)

This pain of bloodlust is one that he would willingly endure for every moment for the rest of Liz’s human life. Were she a vampire, he would no longer feel such literal burning desire, and Ethan would prefer to suffer physical pain than take away her ability to have “la sua vita con un uomo che le avrebbe donato la gioia di un bimbo, non la morte eterna” (146). Still, as a vampiro innamorato, he is conflicted: “Come potevo pensare queste cose? […] La mia vita era nulla, senza di lei. Avvertivo un bisogno fisico, impellente, irrefrenabile di starle accanto” (146).

At this point, his thoughts about being physically near her cause thoughts about physical intimacy to arise. He acknowledges, haughtily and jealously, that despite his altruistic wishes, no one could truly please Liz in the same ways that he could; furthermore, the mere idea of another man with “la mia Liz” (147) stoke the fires of passionate fury and possessiveness:

218

Chi avrebbe potuto, toglierle i vestiti, baciando piano, dolcemente ma con passione ogni centimetro della sua pelle nuda, senza rischiare la morte? Chi avrebbe osato, solo pensare, tutti i modi con cui avrei voluto darle piacere? […] Chi sarebbe riuscito a impedire che io uccidessi quell’uomo? (146–147)

Finally, Ethan abandons this idea of giving Liz to someone else and completely embraces his own jealous desires and needs, imagining, instead, Liz becoming his bride, resplendent in her bridal gown and the object of envy and admiration to all who behold her. In embracing his own emotional and physical nature, he allows the boundless allure of fantasy to inundate his tortured imagination:

E nel buio della notte, quel vestito bianco avrebbe lasciato il suo corpo divino sotto il mio tocco… Sarebbe stata mia, per una notte e per sempre… Le nostre labbra si sarebbero incontrate, prima timide in piccoli, dolci, baci che avrebbero acceso la passione. Poi, una danza sarebbe iniziata mentre i nostri respiri si sarebbero intrecciati e il mio sarebbe divenuto il suo, il suo, parte del mio… (148)

Ellipses allow the reader’s own imagination to meander, but they also emphasise the mystery inherent in not being privy to all of the private meanderings of Ethan’s mind, thereby accentuating the romance, the pleasure, and the sensuality of the desired union. As Folgorata does in Moonlight rainbow, Dooley follows romance convention by carefully employing circumlocution and selecting euphemisms to express the acts that would unfold, were the vampire and the human together. The experience continues in Ethan’s curious and lustful dreamscape, as he is famished for this girl whom he abandoned before they could ever consummate their love in a delicate but ardent dance:

Ed ogni bacio avrebbe accompagnato una carezza e ogni carezza un respiro mentre le mie mani avrebbero esplorato, avide, il suo corpo. Lasciando la sua bocca libera di riprender fiato, avrei continuato ad assaggiare il sapore della sua pelle, in mille altri baci, seguendo la linea dalle labbra fino al lobo, scendendo fino al collo. Le mani, ingorde, avrebbero risalito la sua vita, in un tocco carico di desiderio, fino a posarsi dove il cuore pompava veloce, per poi risalire le curve dei suoi seni. Con gli sguardi incatenati, uno in quello dell’altra, ci saremmo lasciati andare a quell’impulso così irrefrenabile… Mi sarei stupito nel vedere le sue gote arrossarsi mentre un velo di sudore si posava sulla sua pelle… E saremmo stati finalmente un corpo solo. Sarei stato per sempre suo così come lei, sarebbe stata mia. Per sempre. Uniti dalla catena indissolubile che i nostri corpi avevano formato… (148)

The sensual imagery introduced by Ethan is respectful of Liz’s chastity, even in the mind of this vampiric male whose very nature is predatory, carnivorous, and dominated by impulse, physical or otherwise. Indeed, the gentleness and virtue of Ethan’s imagination are a reflection of the romance’s conservative frameworks within which the female author has constructed the fantasy

219 of her male protagonist.

Meanwhile, the single described sexual act in Porcaccia, un vampiro! involves just one person: Andrea.313 After he has met Ludovico, he finds himself confused about his sexuality, though not explicitly—that is, despite the diaristic format of the novel, he alludes to his growing affections for Ludovico only in subtle ways. In the scene below, for instance, Ludovico does not ask to see Andrea again, nor does he ask for Andrea’s telephone number; Andrea acts on instinct, his hands following his heart without his mind’s input: “Cercai nelle tasche e trovai uno scontrino e una matita. […] Scrissi il mio numero di cellulare e glielo porsi. […] «Chiamami quando torni»” (PV 40). When he does not hear from Ludovico, he takes matters into his own hands, prefacing, with his nuanced acknowledgment of the crush that was brewing in him, his decision to break the ice:

Probabilmente fu quello l’innesco. Io non lo riconobbi e la fiammella seguì i lievi ghirigori descritti della miccia, fino alla polveriera. Ma erano tutte cose che quel giovedì sera ancora ignoravo. Io sapevo solo che non l’avevo rivisto dalla domenica precedente, perciò mi appoggiai allo schienale, inalai aria e premetti il tasto INVIO. (PV 35)

The text message that he sends is one that invites Ludovico to meet Andrea and his friends at their hangout spot, Samsara. That evening, Andrea notices himself making frequent furtive glances at the door, secretly hoping that his “amico vampiro si sarebbe fatto vedere” (41); “eppure mi sentivo un coglione contento” (41), he adds.

Despite a number of tender moments between Ludovico and Andrea, sexual encounters between the two, despite their ending up together romantically, are not featured in De Nicolo’s novel. This is in accordance with one of the featured traits of slash fiction: intimacy and sensuality are highlighted, but coitus is not. Duffett reiterates that

the important thing about slash is that it represents a way for fans to reshape the text to suit their interests. […] Within the bounds of an intimate relationship, slash narratives represent a utopian attempt to find mutual equality and autonomy and therefore offer an indirect critique of the rigidity of masculinity as it is currently practiced by most men (Jenkins 1992, 219). According to Sarah Katherine, slash rewrites manhood, presenting it as emotional[ly] responsible, nurturing and sustaining (see Jenkins 2006, 71). (Duffett 173; emphasis in original)

Indeed, Porcaccia is rife with scenes of touching intimacy between the two men, some examples

313 As opposed to the indicated but not described moments—that is, Andrea does not narrate the moments “in real time”—in which Andrea loses his virginity to Carola on PV 142; see p. 221. Also, see pp. 220–221 for the description of Andrea being intimate with himself.

220 of which I include below, though Ludovico and Andrea never engage in intercourse or foreplay in the novel; bloodletting and gentle touching are the peak of intimacy within the confines of De Nicolo’s narrative. This is a reflection of the disputed purpose of the content of slash, as Duffett explains, that is, scholars and fans do not agree on whether, “in terms of its content, slash […] is a form of feminine erotica or gay genre” (299). What I believe is paramount, however, is that an outlet exists for women (and men!) to explore this “alternative universe in which male characters can discover the emotional playfulness, nurturing and sensitivity that they may lack in the real world” (Duffett 299). Seeking further subclassifications for this subgenre seems less important; as much as it has become a cliché, it is valid in this discussion: “love is love” and romance is romance regardless of the gender of one’s beloved.

Still, as mentioned earlier, a heterosexual sex scene does appear in a one-sided manner in Porcaccia. De Nicolo depicts a moment of fantasy from Andrea’s point of view in which Andrea masturbates to the thought of Carola, his absent girlfriend:

Mi toccai tra le gambe, l’erezione premeva contro i jeans stretti. Con gli occhi socchiusi disfeci la cinta, slacciai il bottone e abbassai la lampo. Mi accarezzai al di sopra degli slip, poi scostai l’elastico e iniziai a masturbarmi pensando ai suoi seni piccoli e tondi, a cosa avrebbe significato abbracciarla e sentirli contro il petto, alle sue mani su di me, alla sua bocca, alle sue gambe, ai suoi fianchi stretti contro i miei, sotto i miei. Stavo per venire e mi sfuggì un gemito, che mi ricordò di me stesso. Di cosa sarei potuto diventare, se mi fossi lasciato andare del tutto, con lei. Di come, dopo averla baciata, ero scappato via prima di perdere il controllo, farfugliando di una partita di calcio alla televisione. (PV 82)

The scene is interesting because despite Andrea’s ejaculation resulting from a fantasy involving a woman, the scene that follows includes a veritable emotional explosion of anger from Andrea without clear provocation. I believe this eruption to stem from his confusion within himself over his developing feelings for and fascination with Ludovico (PV 46).314 In the scene above, Andrea has taken a drive to a deserted piazza that faces the sea, after having taken refuge at the home of his mother, who cooks for him and takes him along with her on errands; he finds solace in her protection and love, but he knows, having just met Ludovico, that everything has changed—in his sense of normalcy, his sense of identity, and his sense of stability. Trying to hold on to what he knows, he tries to satisfy his urges with the fantasy of a woman, but he remains dissatisfied and wails his frustration and agony over a changing idea of himself by literally wailing into a

314 Andrea confesses his guilt to the reader for having brought “un mostro nella vita dei miei amici perché ne ero rimasto affascinato” (46).

221 desolate void:

Mi rivestii di furia, come fossi stato beccato dal bidello cattivo. La rabbia e la vergogna e la disperazione mi chiusero la gola. Colpii il volante una volta, un’altra. Spalancai lo sportello e uscii fuori per respirare. Minuscoli schizzi salati mi bersagliarono la faccia e le mani. Guardai le onde, sarebbe stato bello lasciarsi avvolgere e ingoiare e portare via. Il mare era abbastanza grande per prendersi tutto il mio dolore. La gioia folle di questo pensiero mi schiantò. E allora urlai, urlai e urlai ancora. (82–83)

The true meaning of this experience becomes clear only toward the end of this story, in which Andrea the virgin (PV 123), after surviving captivity and interrogation with Ludovico, consummates with Carola, though the reader is not provided a voyeuristic viewpoint into their intimacy; all that is left of the experience is Andrea’s disappointment and a hickey that embarrasses and angers Andrea (146). Despite what he characterises as an experience that was “dolce e caldo,” “le porte dell’empireo non si sono spalancate” and he wished to have felt “diverso, per una volta. Intero, per una volta. Invece niente” (142). After discussing with Andrea, Carola compassionately deduces that “È perché non mi ami” (142), and he cannot deny that; he proceeds to reunite with Ludovico, to whom he declares his true love. Nevertheless, Andrea’s private moments are the closest that De Nicolo comes to descriptions of sex in this novel.

De Nicolo’s apparent traditionalism with regard to excluding explicit scenes depicting a sexual encounter between the two male paramours runs in contrast to the vulgar and crude descriptions employed by other characters in the novels, not to mention the coprolalic expressions that are woven through almost every paragraph in the text.315 An example follows of Andrea’s friends’ manner of speaking about potential sexual escapades; in this excerpt, Giovanni, Loris’s “amico […] dal liceo e omosessuale dichiarato” (PV 16), indicates his interest in the tall, dark, yet deathly pale Ludovico:

Maria si accese una sigaretta e squadrò il tipo in nero con piglio da entomologa. «Mah, è carino ma ha l’aria patita. Secondo me ti si affloscia dopo cinque minuti.» Per risposta Giovanni si girò a rivolgergli una lunga e concupiscente occhiata spermatica. «Lo rianimo io, lo rianimo. Con una bella respirazione bocca a bocca e un bel pompino.» (17)

Still, these free-spirited exchanges cannot make up for this unanticipated fact: De Nicolo’s Porcaccia, un vampiro! is the only book of the three studied in this chapter that lacks consummation (imagined, relived, or narrated as it happens) between the lovers; there is no

315 Still, this is all in keeping with slash tenets to favour sensual moments over overt sexual ones.

222 literal climaxing of their love affair at the end of one’s pursuit of the other. In this unique sense, it is the most conservative of the three novels; it leaves the sexual tension unsatisfied, but, importantly, it completes the romance all the same. Indeed, befitting a love story featuring two men, the great macho trope that is typical of action films is what makes up the backdrop to the beginning of Andrea and Ludovico’s reciprocated romance—an adequate metaphor, actually, for the explosive passion that has just been ignited:

Lo scoppiettio inoffensivo [resulting from a bomb set by Ludovico to distract the officers in pursuit of Ludovico and Andrea] esplode con due boati in rapida sequenza, che sembrano scuotere l’edificio fino alle fondamenta. Una immediata cacofonia di urla belluine spinge la piccola folla verso le scale, travolgendo e trascinando con sé i due uomini, che sbracciandosi e minacciando tentano invano di risalire il senso di marcia del panico. Ridendo ci accodiamo alla fuga e corriamo verso l’uscita. (154; emphasis in original)

Quite beautifully and truly masterfully, De Nicolo simply completes the circle of the earlier metaphor (that of explosive passion) by making the bomb literal.316 By doing so, she effectively provides a cathartic outlet for the rising sensual and sexual intensity in the narrative. Remaining faithful to slash fiction tenets, she creates intimacy between the men without diving into what their erotic experience would entail, which is left to the reader’s imagination.

3.4 Vulgar Terms, Curse Words, and Euphemisms

Accidenti is our first real introduction on MR 83 to something akin to swearing in A cena col vampiro: «Accidenti Zachary […]» (MR 83). Caspita—murmured and not even exclaimed— follows soon after: “Pamela allungò il collo: «Caspita» mormorò ansando” (MR 84). As I explained elsewhere in this chapter and in Chapters 1 and 3, a certain taboo continues to exist even today regarding the use of curse words in romance novels. Even by such standards, accidenti and caspita get by unscathed, given their relatively tame semantic load; however, despite the rather rigid adherence to romance tropes and conventions in Moonlight rainbow, some rules are impressively broken with the following exclamations, which attribute authenticity to the otherwise bland dialogue: «Che altro diamine!» (MR 92); «Che cazzo stai dicendo?» (119); “Che fare? Merda, che fare? Merda, merda, merda…” (120); “Cazzo! Un vortice nelle viscere. Bisognava decidere” (121); “Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo… Doveva chiamare Zachary, no, Tristan forse… Cazzo” (217); «Mi sono sentito una merda d’uomo…» (257).

316 See the excerpt from PV 35 on p. 219.

223

In Raining stars, the situation is much tamer, with curses matching the semantic weight of those in the first 100 pages of Moonlight rainbow but never venturing toward more colourful coprolalia: dannatamente (RS 55 and 263) is the first curse word, mild as it is (that is, if stupida is excluded on RS 11), followed by other similarly weighted curses associated mostly with damnation and the devil—appropriate for a novel on blood-sucking creatures: dannato (57); accidenti (84, 96, 106); Al diavolo (92); “a quanto diavolo” (96); “avrei mandato al diavolo ogni restrizione” (97); “Cosa diavolo ci faceva lì?” (133); “Ethan. Dannato Ethan” (260).

From Porcaccia, the selection and variety of profanities, vulgar terms, pejorative lexemes, and euphemisms increase significantly: sega mentale (PV 5); Merda (6); pisciare (12); “pensavi per forza che con gli altri non c’entrasse una cippa” (16); “gridò all’oggetto delle sue brame con la voce più da checca di cui era capace” (17–18); «Ma vaffanculo» (18); «È una puttanata» (18); Puttanaeva (19, 93); rompipalle (23); «Fanculo» (44); «brutto figlio di puttana» (45); “Ero fatto e fottuto!” (52); «Sono venuto a farti il culo» (54); siamo fottuti (148). One of the heaviest vulgar terms in Italian (but one, as Coveri mentions [20],317 that has begun to comfortably gain ground diaphasically, diamesically, and diastratically) is employed in a multiplicity of vibrant grammatical situations in Porcaccia, at least 20 times in the first 50 pages: «Che porcocazzo fai qua?» (7); m’incazzerei (11); incazzato (12); «E che cazzo» (13); «Bella filosofia del cazzo» (18); “testa di cazzo” (26); “Cazzo stavo facendo” (30); «Che cazzo ha detto?» (41). And the mother of all of these, of course, is “Cazzo cazzo porchissimo cazzo” (87), given more urgency with the absent commas and reminiscent of Porci con le ali’s famously crude opening line.318

This undead romance about a straight-identifying young man who falls in love despite himself with a bisexual male vampire contains a surprising number of pejorative epithets for gay males. Andrea, merely 24 years old, had been raised by a single mother, and his father was someone who had abused him and whom he abhorred to the point of wishing him harm (PV 135). In a late revelation in the book, he is secretly delighted by a carabiniere who calls him a “frocetto di merda” (135):

317 See p. 206. 318 See pp. 224–225.

224

«Stammi bene a sentire, frocetto di merda. Ho visto come vi siete coccolati mentre aspettavate di crepare. Sei la sua troietta […]. Ho controllato, tuo padre è iscritto al Fronte Sociale. Quelli non sono molto tolleranti con voi finocchi, vero? Come credi reagirebbe se gli raccontassi quello che sei?» Resto impietrito. Omosessuale? Io? Poi penso. Mio padre […] viene informato dell’omosessualità del suo primogenito da un funzionario di pubblica sicurezza. Il frutto dei suoi lombi, una checca. Ci resta talmente da farsi venire un infarto. O magari un ictus, di quelli che non ti ammazzano ma ti inchiodano vent’anni ad una sedia a rotelle. Sul volto mi si allarga un sorriso di godimento autentico. (135)

Despite this dark admission to himself of his wishing harm upon his sexual predator of a father, other instances in the narration, before and after this, indicate Andrea’s attraction to Ludovico: “È tornato bello” (144), as well as the hypnotising aroma of cinnamon that Andrea associates with the vampire’s presence, as in “E quell’odore di cannella, tenue ma inconfondibile” (51); others point to the boy’s revulsion and underline Andrea’s unfortunate crippling homophobic ideologies:

«Ho visto le cicatrici […] [m]entre cercavo di svegliarti» spiegai. Andrea non lasciarti infinocchiare!, pensai. (PV 63) […] «Tutti quelli che ho amato sono cenere, perciò tu, se hai raziocinio, devi starmi lontano.» Amare? Me? […] [E]ro pronto a fronteggiare qualsiasi cosa ma questa no. Fui attraversato da una scarica di terrore puro, che si arrampicò sulla mia spina dorsale simile a un branco di vermi schifosi e affamati. Indietreggiai stringendo i pugni. «Stammi lontano. Stammi lontano frocio di merda!» (72) Mentre camminavo verso casa riflettei che, se era questo ciò che quell’emofiliaco invertito desiderava, poteva benissimo andarsene affanculo per il resto della sua lunghissima triste patetica inutile squallida vita. (73)

The presence of all of these examples of coprolalia in the books of the A cena col vampiro series recall Porci con le ali’s important influence as an Italian “diario sessuo-politico di due adolescenti,” to quote the subtitle of the novel by Lombardo Radice and Ravera, or Rocco and Antonia. Giorgio Taffon, writing in 2007, calls the work a “long-seller,” stating that the novel

stands out among the best sellers—and “long-sellers”—of the last 30 years not only for its evident literary merits but also because it constitutes an important social document of post-1968 Italy, a tranche de vie of the generation of adolescents that was at the center of the movement of 1977 and, finally, a phenomenon that has attracted the attention of sociologists of literature […]. (1550)319

319 Perhaps because of their “liv[ing] their social engagement without a real participation, although they accept the ideology of the left-wing youth protest,” Taffon claims that Porci “deni[es] […] the dynamics of the bildungsroman” (1550). This is despite the book’s “story of the sexual initiation of two adolescents” (1550), which is often a vital part of the coming-of-age experience of the romanzo di formazione. I must say that I disagree with Taffon’s exclusion of the book from such a category of novels, as the experimentation of two adolescents, in both

225

Ambrogio and Casalegno, in their compendium of giovanilese expressions Scrostati gaggio! (2004), cite countless examples of terms whose source is Porci. The book is well established as a paragon of young-adult writing, along with Brizzi’s Jack Frusciante è uscito dal gruppo.320 In the very first paragraph of Rocco and Antonia’s diary—indeed, in a paragraph unto itself—the reader is greeted with “Cazzo. Cazzo cazzo cazzo. Figa. Fregna ciorgna. Figapelosa, bella calda, tutta puzzarella. Figa di puttanella” (Lombardo Radice and Ravera 21), making fairly obvious to the reader the tone set in this novel.

Porci con le ali is famously irreverent and clearly un–self-conscious in its inclusion of “thoughts [that] often relate to [Rocco and Antonia’s] erotic impulses, expressed through the repetition of obscenities pronounced with a childish anger and with a verbal rebelliousness inflected by youth slang” (Taffon 307). Despite the considerable lack of vulgar slang in Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars, as compared with the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna and Porcaccia, un vampiro!, Porci con le ali and the writings of authors who followed in Lombardo Radice and Ravera’s wake provided authors of young-adult splatter, chick-lit, teen-lit, and fanfic novels and authors of novels of formation in general a model that is evident even in Folgorata’s and Dooley’s undead romances.

3.5 Brand Names

The books in this series, unlike in Mirta-Luna and in young-adult novels as a rule, are not as concerned with name-dropping brand names to describe clothing or other possessions, with a few exceptions all pointing to the affluence of the Rochester family. For example, in Moonlight rainbow, “Il loro aspetto era quasi normale. Persol scuri sul naso e borsalino calato sul davanti” (61) includes Persol, a brand of premium-quality sunglasses that continues to adorn the bodies of celebrities and other affluent individuals.321 On the next pages are additional indicators of their

their sexual and political lives, necessarily features development (whether regressive or progressive, change occurs) and discovery—even if the development is not linear. 320 See p. 100 for more on Jack Frusciante’s influence on the language of youth. 321 “Moltissimi sono i personaggi famosi che, nel corso degli anni, hanno scelto Persol e la sua qualità, divenendo testimonial spontanei del nostro marchio: grandi sportivi, nomi di spicco dell’imprenditoria internazionale e,

226 extreme wealth: “Gli occhi di Ethan andarono al polso. Il Luminor segnava le undici e trenta” (MR 62);322 Lalique (80), referring to the French glassmaker; “divani Chippendale” (90); “Un pulmino mercedes” (74), with the nominalised brand containing a lower-case m, followed shortly thereafter by “una Maybach grigio perla” (75) and “la Crossfire di Ethan” (116), both with initial capital letters.

In terms of brand loyalty, De Nicolo exhibits none, but the following brand names and pop- culture phenomena sprinkle the Italian atmosphere in Porcaccia: la moka (24), with a lower-case m on the brand of stove-top coffee makers typically used in Italian households; “una lattina di Fanta” (26); “una Peugeot 206” (26); “«Di merda» ci informò Domenico senza staccare la faccia dalla formica” (39); “Paperino e Paperinik” (44); «Ormai c’ho l’anticorpo modello Mastrolindo» (75), with Mastro Lindo united into one word; “la sua Panda rossa” (80); “gli orsetti della Duracell” (86); «Tim informazione gratu[ita]» (87).

Both Folgorata and Dooley appear to have their characters be partial to Apple products323 and, when Liz needs a car in Raining stars, Dooley sets up a scene that reads almost as an advertisement for the Cooper Mini:

[…] si affacciò dal piano superiore e chiese di portarle su l’I—Pod. (MR 80) «Allora per quando prenoto?» Chiese consultando l’i—phone. (MR 238) Liz spiò il volto di Ethan collegato con gli auricolari all’I–pod. (MR 239) Presi con me il fedele iBook,324 che mi aveva accompagnata nei mesi alla Therisoft, e l’i-pod: alla musica c’avrei pensato non appena sarei arrivata al mio rifornitore di fiducia. (RS 77)

soprattutto, indiscusse celebrità del mondo del cinema, l’ambito privilegiato di Persol.” (“Storia | Persol Sito Ufficiale - Italy”) 322 At the time of this writing (July 13, 2017), Panerai, the maker of Luminor watches, lists the “LUMINOR SUBMERSIBLE 1950 3 DAYS AUTOMATIC TITANIO - 47MM” at $11 100 USD. Some of the other Luminor watches by Panerai exceed $20 000 USD. 323 See the excerpt from RS 83–84 and the discussion on pp. 233–234 for more on this apparent brand loyalty, which underlines the wealth and status of these supernatural beings. 324 Curiously, it is the least popular item that the author formats correctly, according to Apple’s formatting conventions, while iPod and iPhone suffer every other formulation. As an additional side-note, Dooley is not the only writer indicating a brand preference in her vampire fiction: Rice, too, in her newest instalments of the Vampire Chronicles, falls prey to brand loyalty with Apple, persistently describing vampire Lestat’s use of his “iPhone,” not of his “cell phone” or “smartphone.” A final possibility to explain this apparent loyalty to Apple is the seeming

227

In fondo, di un blu incantatore, una Mini ferma, lucida, faceva bella mostra di sé. Non era una macchina. Era la trasposizione in auto di ogni mia necessità. Affidabilità, velocità, design… tutto, in una sigla. Solo una parola, sul retro della carrozzeria, poteva essere il marchio di tanto splendore: Cooper. (RS 98)

The authors of A cena col vampiro reinforce romance ideologies by continually underlining the tremendous wealth of the Rochesters. Their fortune bolsters their power and influence in the world and even their sway over Liz, who would have to work more than an entire year, she claims, to accrue the wealth contained in just one of the envelopes of cash that she happens upon in Ethan’s abandoned home. She expresses her incredulity at their fortune in an almost derisive manner: “ma se avevano ‘abbandonato’ cinquantamila dollari in una casa dove, molto probabilmente, non sarebbero tornati a breve, …il loro conto corrente a quanto diavolo ammontava?”325 (RS 96). We will return to this last topic shortly.

3.6 Anthroponymy and Fictional and Historical References

Though it has been said elsewhere, it bears recalling here that Porcaccia is truly on a plane of its own in this series in terms of its language, style, imitation of orality, representation of youth culture, ambientazione in Italy, and, finally, its featuring a story told by a homodiegetic narrator that is not a story of fan-fiction. Its narration style (a single first-person narrator versus Moonlight rainbow’s third-person narrator and Raining stars’ many first-person narrators) and even its subgenre differ from the style and subgenre of the other two books studied in Chapter 4 and in this chapter (i.e., young-adult undead slash fiction versus young-adult undead romance with heaping dashes of chick-lit influence). Indeed, De Nicolo’s work calls to mind more readily and is evidently inspired by the habits and practices of the Cannibali, Brizzi, and Lombardo Radice and Ravera, as we saw in section 3.5 in Chapter 3 (pages 120–123) and section 3.4 in this chapter (pages 222–225). While the novels by Folgorata, Dooley, and De Nicolo were joined in these chapters with the proposed assumption that their serial grouping indicated their shared traits and plot, the discrepancies between Folgorata’s Moonlight rainbow, Dooley’s Raining

nominalisation and genericisation of iPhone to allow it to refer to any and all smartphones, regardless of brand (like using kleenex generically to refer to all disposable tissues, or scotch tape for any brand of adhesive tape). See p. 123. 325 This should be sterline, not dollari; see pp. 239–242 for similar oscillations in these narratives.

228 stars, and De Nicolo’s Porcaccia, un vampiro! are significant.

As we saw in previous sections, De Nicolo allows her characters to be inhabitants of the real world of the book’s readers—that is, “real” with the supplemental existence of vampires. Crafting a fictional environment to which her characters can still relate, despite the addition of fantasy embodied by the presence of the vampire, is intentional on De Nicolo’s part:

Cerco di essere realistica, per quanto possa sembrare un nonsenso in una storia di succhiasangue. Mi sforzo di creare un mondo credibile, in cui i personaggi abbiano comportamenti e motivazioni sensate e coerenti. E mi piacciono i contrasti generati dalla collisione di universi all’apparenza inconciliabili, come quello dei vampiri con la vita di un ragazzo qualunque, il cui ricordo più terrificante fino a quel momento è stato il compagno di classe bullo che lo buttava nel cassonetto. Da ciò nascono le situazioni più spaventose ma anche i momenti esilaranti. (“Un’ intervista con Giusy De Nicolo”)

De Nicolo makes ready and fruitful use of the styles used by her contemporaries and predecessors in the creation of her narrative, and this includes culturally-appropriate anthroponyms, toponyms that refer to actual geographical locations, and references to historical events. Meanwhile, Dooley and Folgorata, whose characters inhabit a United Kingdom that is the product of stereotypical reverie more than it is a reflection of the United Kingdom of the present, eschew adapting the names of characters and places to resemble figures and locations from the Italian reader’s reality. Still, as we saw in the previous section, actual name brands and habits in which young Italians engage are featured in their novels, as are historical events on the reader’s timeline and references to fiction from our world. These will be discussed in this section.

In Moonlight rainbow, a vampire named Somerset Blake visits with i Valacchi (90), who are none other than Count Dracula himself and a woman named Sofia.326 Such a nod to predecessors and influences occurs in Porcaccia as well:327 De Nicolo includes references to these in the reading list of her lead vampire, as Ludovico recounts to Andrea that, as he went from city to city

326 “Valacchi” is a term used for those originating from the geographic region of Romania, appropriate within this book as much as outside of it, given Count Dracula’s—or, rather, Vlad the Impaler’s—Transylvanian provenance: “valàcco [dall’ant. slavo Vlachu preso dall’etnico alto ted. Walh; 1426 ca.] A agg. (pl. m. -chi) Della Valacchia, regione geografica della Romania. B s. m. (f. -a) Nativo della Valacchia” (Zingarelli). 327 In an interview with Laura Rizzo, she said, “già a dieci anni guardavo i vecchi film su Dracula della Hammer e speravo che alla fine il conte prevalesse su quel tufo insopportabile di Van Helsing. Poi sono arrivate le letture, tra cui i classici del genere e i contemporanei. Ma la svolta è stata un saggio di antropologia sociale sui Chipaya, un popolo antichissimo che vive su un altopiano sperduto della Bolivia, e che ha il suo particolare tipo di vampiro, il kharisiri. E lì ho pensato, ‘Cavolo pure loro hanno un succhiasangue!’ A quel punto strane idee malsane hanno cominciato a frullarmi per la testa” (Rizzo).

229 in the early days of his vampirism, “leggevamo Le Fanu, Polidori e Stoker e ridevamo fino alle lacrime. Un ennesimo errore” (69). Additionally, De Nicolo mentions Italian writer (Gabriele) D’Annunzio (PV 9), appropriate for any Italian scholastic ambiance; (Horace) Walpole, the English Gothic writer of The Castle of Otranto (PV 10), which allows for a subtle awakening of the reader’s mind to the adventures to follow; and the once-forgotten Hungarian writer Sàndor Marai (PV 8). Finally, De Nicolo (like Folgorata, in some cases), has her characters exist on the same realistic plane as the reader’s, having her vampires recall, coexisting with, or fleeing from Nazi occupations, for instance: «Ci trovavamo di nuovo in Olanda nel 1940, quando arrivarono i Nazisti» (69). Still a work of fiction, Porcaccia includes a fictional twist in having Ludovico claim that the immortal strength and preternatural powers of vampires were amongst the items on the Nazis’ “wish list” of deadly weapons to reinforce their armies:

«[…] Rimanemmo bloccati a Rotterdam e prendemmo in affitto due stanze al secondo piano di un palazzo del quartiere vecchio, dove avremmo aspettato la fine di quell’ennesima guerra. Stavolta, invece, accadde qualcosa di molto molto diverso, perché dalla fine del 1943 gli scienziati del Reich stavano ricercando una nuova arma, che concedesse la vittoria al loro esercito ariano. Avevano dimostrato l’esistenza della nostra razza apparentemente indistruttibile e iniziato una serie di esperimenti promettenti, il cui fine era scoprire il segreto della nostra forza e trasmetterlo a un’arma scelta. […] Chissà da quanto ci studiavano.» (69)

Indeed, even with plot devices and events that are contrary to reality (the battle between the Rochesters and Quirites, for instance), even Moonlight rainbow still operates, to some extent, within the reader’s shared geopolitical history:

Confinata per millenni nelle catacombe romane, aveva portato in superficie il suo quartier generale durante la ricostruzione del secondo dopoguerra. Ma l’antico ipogeo sopravviveva e si estendeva sotto piazza Vittorio fino alla poco distante villa di Nerone, la Domus Aurea di Colle Oppio. (48)

«Si vede che il decadimento di Lenith non è solo esteriore dopo la sua compromissione con il nazismo…». (81)

Finally, works of art and fiction from the reader’s world are shared by these fictional characters, as indicated by “Matthew sembrava un Terminator in crisi mistica”328 (MR 254) and the few occasions in which song lyrics (in this case, “Don’t Cry” [1991]) by bands like Guns N’ Roses are quoted, though in translation: “Parlami dolcemente / C’è qualcosa nei tuoi occhi / Non lasciarti sopraffare dal dolore / e ti prego di non piangere / So come ti senti dentro / Ci sono

328 Compare the English spelling of Terminator with De Nicolo’s italianised one in the cheeky Sterminetor (PV 27) on p. 245.

230 passato anche io / Qualcosa dentro di te sta cambiando / E tu non sai” (RS 56).

In Porcaccia, credit to older and contemporary authors; film and pop stars; and pop-culture phenomena provide an environment to which the reader can relate, one that may be common both to fictional Andrea Magli and to most contemporary Italian young people. These include the following: “Midlife crisis dei Faith No More” (PV 27); “una gigantesca Candid Camera” (31); MTV (37); Marilyn Manson (37); “il guerriero Superseiàn” (40; spelled according to Italian phonetics, while the original spelling in Roman letters of the character’s name from the Japanese anime series Dragonball Z is “Super Saiyan”329); Abraham Van Helsing and Scooby Doo (47; in reference to fictional vampire hunters); Nosferatu (60); Bela Lugosi (71); capitan Harlock (73); «[…] Dovresti vedere che pranzi quando Loris si sente Vissani […]» (76).

To begin our discussion on anthroponymy, I will start with the names of characters in Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars, which truly do reflect a world of romantic Anglosaxon fantasy. In this contemporary and globalised setting in which iPhones, Chanel clothing, and Mini Coopers are within reach, the A cena col vampiro universe features vampires of various ethnicities, historical epochs, geographic origins, races, and chronological (but not physiological) ages. Thus, older vampires typically bear names that indicate the person’s ethnic origins lying outside of Britain, and other names are often those read in the early pages of history books, both local and foreign; this is in keeping with the Ancient-Roman or Ancient-Roman–sounding names employed by Meyer for members of the primeval Volturi clan, which includes Aro, Caius, and Marcus… but also Jane. The reader is introduced to analogous characters in Moonlight rainbow when Liz or other Rochesters meet with members of other vampire clans, many of whose names are inspired by or have origins in Greek mythology, figures from Antiquity, and Shakespearean plays. These include Jenius (MR 65 and 70, and misspelled Jenus on 70); Angel,330 Hector, Ilona, Leroy, and Hilario (70); Daya, Galatea, and Iago (81); Cosmo and Chandra (92); Balthasar331 and Greta (96); Taurus (121). On MR 100, we meet Nept, Venus, and Luna, the first of which appears to be a shortened form of Neptune; the last is a curious coincidence with the

329 “[È] una trasformazione del Saiyan, raggiunta da violenti scoppi d’ira o di frustrazione…” (Dragonball Wikia). 330 This name, no doubt, harks back to the “‘good’, non-human killing [vampire]” (Wright 353) Angel in Joss Whedon’s television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which ran from 1997 to 2003 (Wright 348). 331 Due to a typographical error, he later becomes Balthazar, with a z, on MR 322.

231

Trilogia, but, of course, it is more likely to have had its origins in the lunar and solar themes of the Twilight books,332 not to mention the planets in our solar system, as Venus and Nept suggest. And, like the vagrant “nomads” (clan-less vampires) of Twilight (Twilight 290), these last three vampires are considered the “Erranti” (MR 101).

In Raining stars, in addition to the usual cast of characters of the Rochester family, we are introduced to secondary and tertiary characters with modern Anglosaxon names like Sean Gordon, i Gordon, Marissa, and Billy (24), whose name is a possible tribute to Billy Black, Jacob’s father, from the Twilight universe, though Billy is about as generic and source-full a name as they come. We also become acquainted with Wallace (25); Dean, Adrian, Gil, Nelly, Vicky, and Allison (30); and tertiary characters like Douglas Sparks (99), bearing a remarkable resemblance to “Nicholas Sparks,” American romance writer of such bestsellers as The Notebook (1996) and A Walk to Remember (1999). The names of the characters in this book are appropriately more contemporary, perhaps because no epic battle between clans of elder vampires takes place; we merely follow Liz and Ethan as they travel the modern world in search of one another, accompanied or watched by members of the Rochester clan, who are not as old as many of the undead creatures in Moonlight rainbow engaged in earth-shattering discord. Still, some names that scarcely obey English orthography and pronunciation conventions make occasional appearances, as with the last name in “la vecchia professoressa Climt” (77), who, however, may have some distant relation to Austrian Klimts. Finally, after Liz’s exhibition of wealth upon purchasing a Cooper Mini S, she reserves a room at a hotel under the alias of “Issobel Davis” (103). It is a truly rare name in the contemporary English-speaking world, but it includes a not-so-subtle acknowledgment of the protagonist whose normalcy, clumsiness, and blandness somehow attracted the breathtakingly-beautiful Edward Cullen: Isabella Swan from the Twilight Saga.

In Porcaccia, the names of characters are much less far-fetched and are natural and native to the Italian scenes of the book’s plot. Andrea, Fabio, Loredana, Domenico, Carola, Ludovico, and Loris populate the adventures of Andrea “Cespuglio” Magli in and around Bari, Puglia. Furthermore, in De Nicolo’s text, since the fictional plot unfolds in an Italy that very much

332 See footnote 42 on p. 30.

232 reflects that of its readers, Porcaccia’s characters experience and employ brand names and proper names (which have become a part of Italian colloquial language) in just the same way real Italians would: they drop them casually in speech and in descriptions to reflect their everyday life experiences in a culturally specific environment. Marcato illuminates the explicit function of the linguistic variety adopted by young Italians:

I giovani affermano di adoperare con gli amici, i compagni di scuola, un linguaggio particolare che gli adulti non usano e non capiscono; lo fanno per divertimento, per scherzare, per adeguarsi al gruppo, fino a dire che si tratta di “un modo di parlare sereno, senza dover cercare parole complicate per esprimere un concetto semplice.”333 Le funzioni della LG [lingua dei giovani] sono, infatti, in primo luogo quella ludica, quella di affermare l’appartenenza al gruppo e di delimitare il gruppo verso l’esterno, e quella personale (affermazione del singolo all’interno del gruppo). Il gruppo è fondamentale in questa dinamica linguistica: “rappresenta il modo di organizzarsi socialmente al di fuori delle istituzioni della ‘vita seria,’ [(]famiglia, scuola, lavoro)” (Cortelazzo 294), e la LG serve a creare e ma[n]tenere la coesione al suo interno. Appaiono nettamente secondarie, di poco conto, se non inesistenti, funzioni quali l’intento criptolalico (essere incomprensibili a chi non appartiene al gruppo) […]. (570)

I would like to underline the purpose of giovanilese, or the “lingua dei giovani,” as one of “socially setting oneself outside of the institutions of ‘serious’ or ‘real life’”—as though to imply that the life of a student is not real life. While Andrea and his friends certainly live dedicated lives as university students, they are (usually) single, have no dependents, and are not part of the work force; as a result, their language reflects this openness of space and time and the lack of seriousness (children, spouses, work challenges, etc.) that allows for linguistic creativity to flourish. Indeed, they harness the illusion of immortality, taking advantage of vast time and space to joke around and create pointless narratives within their lives to pass the time.334

And while Marcato underlines that the language of youth “è varietà prevalentemente di uso orale” (570), she also states that it is not restricted to this diamesic function: it is equally employed for other “specifiche situazioni comunicative e per determinati argomenti (scuola, amicizie, sesso, lo sport e altri temi al centro degli interessi dei giovani)” (570). She concludes, then, that it is “una varietà diafasica dell’italiano, vale a dire un registro” (570). As a “modo di parlare sereno, senza dover cercare parole complicate per esprimere un concetto semplice,” though without existing explicitly as a type of jargon or a way to exclude others, giovanilese

333 As Marcato indicates in a footnote, this is quoted from the study of her student, Marco Zago, at the Università di Venezia, but no other parenthetical notes are given. 334 See excerpts on pp. 207–208 regarding the “faida dello zerbino.”

233 functions as fruitfully as a linguistically- and semantically-complex inside joke: if you were present when the joke came to fruition, just the joke suffices to speak volumes; if you need the joke to be explained to you, you may not have been the intended listener or receiver of the joke, anyway. Similarly, for expressions unique to the diamesic and diaphasic register of youth, the speaker—or, in De Nicolo’s case, the diarist who confides his story with the tint of orality as though telling it to a confidante—who shares a cultural context with his or her interlocutor needs to say little to convey exactly what he or she intends. Thus, “Un tre×due all’Oviesse” (PV 12) or “una vecchia puntata di Quark” (114) are meaningful to an Italian youth in a general sense, or, with more specificity, to that particular circle of friends.

Brand names in Dooley’s and Folgorata’s works are of a somewhat more traditional and more refined variety, so to speak, in the sense that they do not name-drop celebrities and pop-culture references—from the English-speaking world or from Italy—as frequently as in Porcaccia, as the plot of these novels is foreign and deals less with the banalities of everyday life and focusses more on elaborate adventures, grandiose romance, and epic encounters between undead creatures. As they appear to betray in the outmoded stereotypes that they entertain, as we will see below, these authors seem to have limited first-hand knowledge of the cultures and environments in which they set their narratives; thus, it is understandable that they would feature fewer direct references to the host environment’s culture and society.

That said, it is appropriate that they cater to the stereotypes and expectations of the Italian reader, so as not to alienate her, and, indeed, brand names in these books denote cultural experiences and commercial items common to or at least familiar to inhabitants of the Western world in general. An iconic example—when one considers the chick-lit classification befitting many undead romances—follows, spoken from Tristan’s point of view. It is significant, too, because it demonstrates the wealth of the vampires in this series; acts out the purported fantasies of female readers; and re-enacts (outmoded) stereotypes about male affinities for electronics and female preferences for shopping for clothing and other sartorial accessories—and these are just two of several gendered stereotypes that conventional romances do not mind reinforcing.335 In this excerpt, the initial alphabetisation of the brands (until Versace) is suspicious, augmenting the

335 See pp. 165–168.

234 fantasy, as it is doubtful that any street block or mall arranges stores in such a way:

«Amore, vogliamo rimanere qui a fissare le macchine che passano ancora per un po’, oppure muoveremo un passo prima o poi?» […] «Macchine Tristan? Ma, questo è il paradiso dello shopping! Sentiamo in quale di questi negozi, andresti adesso?» Mi guardai attorno, passando in rassegna le vetrine a tiro d’occhio: Bulgari, Cartier, Fendi, Ferragamo, Gucci, Harry Winston, Kenneth Cole, Louis Vuitton, Saks, Tiffany, Versace, Chanel, laCoste, Banana Republic, Burberry… Infine, arrestai lo sguardo dritto di fronte, là dove una scritta catturò la mia attenzione. «Apple store tesoro, eccolo, è proprio lì davanti.» Lo sguardo che Pamela mi riservò diceva già tutto. […] «Apple store? Apple store? Tristan ma sei forse impazzito? Te li puoi ordinare tramite internet, computer e i-phone!» (RS 83–84)

Chiara Francesca Ferrari, in the context of dubbing for television in Italy but illustrating a point that is equally valid in our context of setting an Italian novel in the United Kingdom, states that “dubbing is not always [an] inconspicuous art […]”: “The necessity to justify […] the actual visible elements in the mise-en-scène is what makes dubbing a difficult process of cultural adaptation, sometimes successful, other times provoking estrangement in the audience” (50). Dooley and Folgorata’s United Kingdom provides an environment that readers must accept and incorporate into their imagined view of the unfolding plot. If the authors were to provide full sociocultural immersion for the reader by remaining fiercely loyal to the brands and cultural stereotypes of the British, the authors would risk alienating their readers. There is, indeed, a fine line between alienating the reader and adding enough “exotic” elements to pique the reader’s curiosity and attract her to the foreign culture, and I believe that Dooley and Folgorata are, in most cases, successful in not crossing this fine line. Providing an illuminating example from translator Elena Di Carlo, who works on The Simpsons, Ferrari talks about navigating around this fine line in dubbing and adapting American television for Italian audiences, explaining that

if in [the show] there is a reference to an American singer who might not be popular in Italy, [Di Carlo] needs to find a strategy to modify the text in a way that such a reference becomes clear to the new audience but not detached from the original context. Therefore, the translator can change the referent to Pavarotti, for example, whose name is internationally recognized, but not to an Italian singer only popular in Italy, because that reference would make no logical sense in Springfield [i.e., where The Simpsons is set]. (51)

Keeping all of the above in mind, we discover that Dooley and Folgorata do not merely avoid the fine line that separates estrangement from desirable exoticism; nay, their avoidance of estranging the reader points to the writers’ ignorance of British, Scottish, and Irish societies. As a result, they play into Italian prejudices of these cultures, giving away their lack of familiarity and knowledge of the culture in which they set their stories. The following excerpt, both hilarious

235 and offensive in its depiction of English obliviousness, is exemplary of the authors’ cultural unfamiliarity. An American brand, that of Heinz ketchup, makes a casual appearance in this ludicrous scene in Moonlight rainbow in which a celebrity chef on a television show called Cooking Today prepares a pizza using Heinz ketchup instead of tomato sauce. This scandalises Somerset Blake,336 vampire though he may be (and, thus, not a consumer of “food” in the customary sense), and leads to an absurd situation in which the vampire signals his cultural and gastronomic superiority to the ignorant Americans or Brits featured on the show—or both, though it is likely that the scene is meant to deride the latter, whose geographical and historical closeness to the reader’s location makes them a more apt target. I must recall to the reader that the Campbell family, comprising Liz and Endora, is originally from Gibraltar; they are not from London or Oxford or Cambridge, locales that might suggest that the Campbell women possess a modicum of culture and refinery. Gibraltar’s isolation from the rest of the United Kingdom may be equated with cultural isolation in this context. Thus, Somerset ostentatiously displays his cultural superiority and poo-poos the horrific (and improbable) act of replacing tomato sauce with ketchup, violently adjusting the recipe to meet his “correct” and high-class sensibilities:

«Ketchup?» La voce del vampiro rimbombò esterrefatta. «Assolutamente sì… Che cosa sennò?» La risposta proveniva dalla chioma rossa e ricciuta [di Endora]. «Pomodoro!» esclamò la voce indignata di Somerset. (MR 185)

Somerset demonstrates to Endora, the naïve observer of the TV cook, that the woman wrongly assumes that chefs on Cooking Today are authoritative; he, having lived in il bel paese, should be enough of an authority. He shockingly orders her to obey, in yet another instance of manufactured male supremacy over females in these novels:

«E se non le spiace, so tutto di pizza. Ho vissuto in Italia.» soggiunse sbattendo le palpebre. […] «Pensa di saperne di più di Cooking Today?» la voce di Endora era stata gelida. «Oh sì, buona donna. Assai di più, le consiglio di non porre indugio. Obbedisca. Riponga quell’indegna mostarda.» (186)

In Porcaccia, a curious inclusion, demonstrative of the culture and society that Andrea inhabits,

336 Please allow me to include a side-note about this character’s name, too: Somerset is strange as a first name, and Blake is a common first and last name (furthermore, Blake is the last name of Anita Blake, the eponymous vampire hunter of Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter young-adult paranormal-romance book series). Were the names to be reversed to create Blake Somerset, the character would not lose the elegance evoked by Somerset and his name would be a realistic facsimile of an English name.

236 which involves the influence of superstition, is his “rapporto con la religione istituzionalizzata” (PV 24). Andrea resurrects a symbol of Catholic cultural import, one that popular culture taught him would protect him from creatures of the night such as Ludovico, in order to feel protected from the vampire after their first meeting. It may appear that he seeks protection on behalf of God, but he finds solace in the cross in its close associations with tradition and his family. Religion, tradition, family, and, of course, superstition are all tied in to the symbol of the cross, as illustrated in this excerpt:

Ci misi un po’ a trovarlo ma alla fine saltò fuori. Il crocifisso337 che la mia bisnonna si era portata dietro da Napoli e che mamma mi aveva infilato in valigia il primo anno di università. Non l’avevo appeso perché il mio rapporto con la religione istituzionalizzata non è mai stata idilliaco, però ora presi chiodo e martello e lo piazzai sopra il letto. Puerile, lo so, ma non sapevo che altro fare. (24)

Indeed, turning to the cross for comfort and protection feels childish and vain to him, almost like holding a Teddy bear close to one’s chest for comfort. Still, it strikes him as a last resort, as he had never felt himself to be in such peril as he was around this vampire, from whom he did not know how else to protect himself.

Likewise, as he finds comfort in religious symbols for their traditional, familial, and pop-cultural connotations and not necessarily for any true faith in their religious symbolism, Andrea relies on superstitious actions, too. Andrea, a man from the south of Italy, thanks his lucky stars that his kidnappers released him and that his and Ludovico’s identities were protected; his superstitiousness dictates the following act of believed defence: “La loro identità, e questo lo riporto con una mano sui coglioni, non è stata rivelata per esigenze d’indagine” (138).

Finally, as Coveri (20) and Marcato (562) describe,338 the language of young people favours ludicity and hyperbole and thus exhibits a great facility with the nicknaming of individuals, often by a single characteristic derived from an individual’s actions or physical traits. In Porcaccia, Andrea crafts such creations frequently when a person’s name is not available or he is ignorant to it, intentionally or otherwise. While nicknames of this type are omnipresent in young-adult works, Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars are decidedly devoid of such a practice, as is Mirta-

337 Curiously, this word is spelled crocefisso on the very next page (PV 25). 338 See pp. 100 and 205–206.

237

Luna, though Mirta does come up with monikers like Peter da Manchester in the absence of a person’s full name. This practice starts immediately with Andrea’s indication of his own nickname as Cespuglio: “Va bene rotelline mie, pensai legandomi con un elastico la massa disorganizzata di ricci per cui m’avevano soprannominato Cespuglio […]” (PV 7). On PV 12, Andrea submits a form to someone he refers to as frau Blücher, which, the reader learns directly from a later “NdA” (or nota dell’autrice), is not the person’s name but, rather, “il riferimento a frau Blücher prov[iene] ovviamente da Frankenstein Jr, diretto da Mel Brooks” (14); it might not be ovvio to the reader, but the reference indicates the jocular nature and the fictionality of the name. Finally, with Ludovico’s first introduction, we see the nicknaming practice gain ground and settle into the prose after the description of the company with whom Ludovico walks into a bar, which allows the reader to visualise and identify the individuals that Cespuglio describes:

Ci girammo che ancora erano in piedi. Uno era lungo e secco, sulla ventina, con un giubbotto rosso. L’altro più robusto e vecchio, con un paio di baffetti e un cappotto cammello. Il terzo, quello che doveva aver attirato Giovanni, era sui venticinque, vestito di nero, pallido, i capelli scuri che sfioravano le spalle. Era piuttosto esile e neanche molto alto ma a causa dei lineamenti e del portamento pensavi per forza che con gli altri due non c’entrasse una cippa. (16)

Andrea proceeds to ascribe Spilungone to the first, Baffetto to the second, and Uccello (from “Uccello del paradiso,” as he was described by Giovanni) or il Nero to the third of these men, who is Ludovico (PV 18, 20, 21, 24, 25, 27). Further examples of this convention appear in the following nicknames: Harlock (PV 73), derived from “uno con certe basette affilate alla capitan Harlock”; “quello sdentato si arrabbiò” on PV 94 becomes a proper noun on PV 95, in “[l]a stessa pistola che lo Sdentato mi teneva in bocca”; uno skinhead (103) soon becomes Lo Skin (108); “un altro figuro coi capelli decolorati” (103) acquires the nickname of il Decolorato (110). Finally, a fourth “figuro” apparently merits the least pejorative title of il Boss (104), after this description: “L’ultimo era sui quaranta, capelli corti, cappotto Prada e scarpe nere. Gli altri tre [uomini] gli si disposero intorno a raggera, in automatico” (103); for il Boss, not just his apparel but his demeanour and the way others behave or arrange themselves in his presence evoke this apt title.

Then, there are the two carabinieri who, after the ordeal in Albania, interrogate and subsequently follow Andrea, hoping that the escaped Ludovico might contact the young man. Of the two interrogators, the kinder one earns the nickname il Cobra (132), due to his posture (“mi incute timore perché ha […] la postura di un cobra reale” [129]), while the harsher dons il Mastino (and

238 even Darth Veder [139 and 145]), from Ludovico’s observations that the man is pursuing him like a mastiff after prey. Il Mastino, however, before being identified as such (as a common noun on 144, becoming proper on 154), is addressed directly with the second person singular, starting from Chapter 11: he is the person to whom Andrea is recounting this “agro frappè” of events.339

This comic convention, necessary in the absence of proper introductions between the characters, fulfills a useful narrative purpose as much as it is helpful for the first-person narrator who claims to have undergone this trauma. It allows readers to imagine and understand references to the person that the narrator describes or with whom the narrator is interacting, without the requirement of clunky circumlocutions, such as “the one with the short hair and Prada coat”; furthermore, it allows the narrator to create distance from the characters that tortured him and his lover. Although giving his tormentors nicknames potentially creates closeness and intimacy between the characters (feasibly making the drama more real and painful for Andrea), the names were not approved, adopted, or solicited by the characters themselves, thus equipping Andrea with personal power, almost all of which has been stripped in these scenes; it allows him some sort of dominance over his oppressors, however weak it may be.

Additionally, Andrea comfortably uses the aliases of famous fictional vampires and actors who played them in film to refer to Ludovico or even to address him directly, all of which appear to be used as mildly cruel pet names:

[…] l’interno dell’abitacolo era della solita radica di nocciolina, senza pipistrelli appesi al tettuccio o altre amenità da principe delle tenebre. (PV 33) «Nosferatu, guarda che quella notte andavo per i fatti miei» […]. (60) Su quei denti perfetti e letali io schioccai un deciso colpetto con l’unghia dell’indice. «Bello show, ma Bela Lugosi era meglio.» (71) «Ludovì, parla chiaro, che hai combinato a quelli là per farli incazzare così tanto?» «Niente.» «Nosferatu, non è il momento di essere pudichi. Cos’è stata, una merendina di troppo?» (99)

In the specific case of Ludovico, the reader views the evolution of Andrea’s comfort with the vampire by means of the names and nicknames, via antonomasia, used to refer to Ludovico, from il Nero and Nosferatu to the endearing Ludovì, created through the colloquial shortening of his

339 See pp. 156–157.

239 name after the stressed syllable (Grossmann et al. 606). These are in addition to the playful insults that Andrea uses, almost as a way to minimise his physical “fralezza” by augmenting his presence (and, perhaps, his idea of masculinity, which he fears may be in question in the face of his own suspected and poorly understood homo-, bi-, or perhaps pansexuality) via strong, aggressive words and actions. In this unlikely scenario, the wounded Ludovico, once superior in form, power, and presence to the human Andrea, is the weaker one as a result of the torture inflicted upon him by his persecutors. Still, Ludovico, a preternatural being, will heal, and like Edward in Meyer’s New Moon, he seeks to push his paramour away in order to save the object of his affection from the inherent dangers associated with being close to him, a blood-lusting vampire, and insists that Andrea leave him alone. Andrea, having discovered implicitly that he returns Ludovico’s affections, does everything but say exactly what he feels until he is forced to spell it all out, though not without some key name-calling, as is characteristic of Andrea:340

«Quello che cerco di dirti, brutto zuccone, è che al solo pensiero di non vederti più mi si è aperta una voragine qua» spiego, toccandomi sulla zona d’interregno tra stomaco e cuore. […] «Cos’altro vuoi?» «Voglio stare con te, deficiente! […]» (151–152)

Other epithets pointing to Ludovico’s vampirism include the sweet “il mio amico vampiro” (PV 41), the grotesque “un cadavere ambulante” (49), and the unfortunate derogatory epithet of “quell’emofiliaco invertito” (73). This last one harshly judges not just the vampire’s penchant for blood-sucking but also his bisexuality; this expression follows Ludovico’s subdued declaration of his love for Andrea, who is unkind and impolite to the vampire and confirms in a most vulgar manner that he does not reciprocate this love: “Stammi lontano frocio di merda!» (72).

3.7 “Exotic” and Foreign Influences

The prose of all three books is written in contemporary Italian; nonetheless, the characters in both Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars speak in English to each other and employ the terms and cultural referents of the United Kingdom, which includes imperial measurements. I do not feel it necessary that there be sweeping cultural loyalty in this story written for an Italian audience, but, of course, the foreign measurements and titles (like Mrs. and Mr., for instance)

340 This method is also, without a doubt, a defence mechanism: by insulting the man as he all but tells him he loves him, he protects himself in the event of rejection. See pp. 159–160 for Andrea’s full profession of love and devotion.

240 may serve to accentuate the foreignness of the text and its characters and, thus, increase its appeal. In many cases, though, rather than being appealing, some of the culturally specific traits employed in these novels, notably the imperial measurements, are alienating; even a Canadian reading these texts, who vacillates at all times between two systems—the American and the British ones—can be estranged by distances measured in yards or miles rather than metres or kilometres.341 In Moonlight rainbow, the following measurements are used for distances: cinquanta yarde (MR 18); “Dieci miglia lineari” (43); 51 miglia (51); 50 piedi (51); “una decina di yarde” (76). This overarching imperial convention is consistent with British vacillation between metric and imperial units, as reflected in the text: “Ogni centimetro di pelle” (69) and “a pochi centimetri” (85).

However, shattering any semblance of attention to this practised vacillation appears to be the complete lack of familiarity with British currency: Folgorata has her characters talk in dollari instead of sterline: “settecentomila dollari” (MR 75). Dooley, too, adheres to some British units of measurement, but she demonstrates a lack of certainty—or cultural absentmindedness—with miglia (RS 95, 101), which shares space with chilometri, at times on the very same page:

Affondavo il pedale, acceleravo ancora. Veloce, più veloce, mangiavo i chilometri. Le canzoni si susseguivano alla radio, riempivano l’abitacolo della macchina e arrivavano dai timpani al cervello. Erano motivi orecchiabili ma non prestavo attenzione alle parole. Centodieci miglia orarie. (RS 101) Le miglia non sarebbero state mai abbastanza […]. […] Presi l’uscita 6 e a qualche chilometro, trovai un hotel. (102)

While Dooley repeatedly refers to the banconote (RS 78) that Liz discovers abandoned in the Rochester home as sterline (95–97), rather than using Folgorata’s erroneous dollari, she is not impervious to error—or to American influences. As part of the same scene in which Liz counts out the bank notes, she starts with sterline but curiously ends up with dollari:

Cento sterline. Cento sterline accidenti! […] Quella sola mazzetta valeva 10.000 sterline. Avevo, dieci-mila-sterline in mano. Una cifra che non avrei raggiunto lavorando tutto un anno incessantemente! […]

341 See pp. 234–236 in which I explore the effects of crossing the fine line between cultural estrangement and the appeal of the exotic and suggest that Dooley and Folgorata invent inaccurate or prejudicial exchanges and scenes in their narratives due to their own inexperience with the cultures that they attempt to recreate in their novels.

241

Cioè, ma se avevano abbandonato cinquantamila dollari in una casa dove, molto probabilmente, non sarebbero tornati a breve, …il loro conto corrente a quanto diavolo ammontava? (RS 96)

Finally, another indication that Dooley is unfamiliar with the host culture of her novel resides in Liz’s exclamation that she would not manage to make 10 000 British pounds even if she were to work “tutto un anno incessantemente.” Either Liz’s employer pays much too little or Dooley believes that the British pound exceeds the Euro’s worth by a lot.342

With regard to titles, on MR 29, 83, and elsewhere, the characters use the honorifics Mr.343 and Mrs., but inconsistently. “Mr. Peabody” and “Mrs. Campbell”344 are two characters who, in narration, retain their English honorifics (“«Pamela?» ripetè Mrs. Campbell» [MR 239]), but when Folgorata has her characters address these very people, she reverts to Italian formalities: “Pamela notò che l’auto di Mrs. Campbell aveva i fanali accesi. […] «Signora non ha spento i fari… […]»” (MR 83) and «Che cosa sta facendo signora? […]» (86). While the juxtaposition of the two forms is unusual on the surface, it is not entirely surprising, since Italian stands in for English in dialogue in the series. Like Folgorata, Dooley hops between the two forms, also employing Italian honorifics in dialogue, as in «Con chi ho il piacere di parlare signorina?» (RS 99) and «C-certo signorina, sono a sua completa disposizione» (99), while favouring English honorifics in descriptive narration: “Gli occhi bovini di Mr.Sparks si bloccarono sul denaro” (99; “Mr.Sparks” is not separated by a space in the novel). Also, on RS 118, Dooley introduces a certain “Mister X,” where the honorific is spelled out; this, however, is less remarkable, as the term is familiar to Italian readers in its use as a generic name to refer to a mysterious or unknown person.

In both Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars, characters speak English in Italian and use British

342 Of course, a final likely alternative is that Dooley wishes to bring Liz’s inexperience, in her mere 18 years of life, to the foreground. Indeed, an 18-year-old has very few years of work experience, and such a sum as that in Liz’s possession is an enormous amount. 343 Both Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars are set in the United Kingdom, and the characters are understood to be speaking (British) English amongst themselves, despite the American territory of the Twilight series that inspired them. It is logical that the authors choose an atmosphere that is foreign enough while still being European and, thus, familiar. Still, in some cases, the orthography suggests—but certainly does not imply—that North-American English is being used as a linguistic model. For instance, abbreviated honorifics in British writing do not employ a final period to indicate the abbreviation, but North-American writing does. In British English, Mr and Mrs would be the prevailing forms. (See Trask.) 344 Mrs. Campbell, of course, is simply Endora Campbell, Liz’s human mother.

242 referents commingled with Italian ones; I argue that the British scenery would be more effective if the author had carefully adhered to a single convention, as the willy-nilly usage is confusing and, for the careful reader, grating. The linguistic influence and hegemony of the English- speaking American world, at the epicentre of popular undead romances, is practically painted on every single page of the A cena col vampiro books. A prominent nod to the source language of the Twilight books is the use, in Raining stars, of a few English chapter titles; of course, the English titles of the novels per se comprise the most obvious tribute. These chapter titles include Memory (RS 37); Oltre l’arcobaleno (109), linked to the song whose lyrics are quoted on RS 111; Tombstones (113); and Dreams (145). Deja-vù (23) and Paris (81) connect these books to the francophone world, though these titles also happen to be part of the English lexicon, too.

In Porcaccia, meanwhile, the environment is entirely Italian: the language, the setting, and the cultural referents are all appropriate for the scenery. For instance, when Ludovico rifles through Andrea’s wallet, he sees that the boy resides in “Taranto in via Pirro 21” and has a “tessera dell’Edisu” (PV 21); other cultural indicators include calling “il 118” for an emergency (53) or Andrea’s growl of exasperation of «Zitta stronza» before he hangs up on an unnamed female, whom the reader will know is the recorded voice of Tim telecommunication company’s robotic female operator, as she says «Tim informazione gratu…» (87). The language that the characters use is explicitly defined in contrast with others at several points:

La musica era alta ma riuscimmo a captare alcune frasi [from Ludovico’s conversation]. Che non erano in italiano. A orecchio, una lingua slava. «Pure esotico» riattaccò Giovanni. Tra una sorsata e l’altra gli obiettai alcuni inevitabili problemi di comunicazione e lui rispose che sarebbe ricorso al Linguaggio Internazionale dell’Amore […]. (PV 17) Alle due e mezza ero a Krujë. […] Dopo un paio di svolte trovai quella che sembrava una trattoria. Scostai la tenda a perline e entrai in una stanza in ombra. […] Mi stampai un sorriso largo fino alle orecchie e salutai con un «Good afternoon.» Non risposero nulla. Mi avvicinai. Non si mossero. Continuavano a fissarmi torvi. Provai con l’italiano. Niente. Fui tentato di mettermi a ballare il tip tap, giusto per vedere se avrebbero reagito almeno a questo. Tornai all’inglese e chiesi se conoscessero un uomo di nome Ludovico Spinola. La loro imperturbabilità non ne venne scalfita. Ripassai all’italiano con risultati analoghi. Poi ebbi la geniale idea e chiesi di Stëpa Lichodeev [Ludovico’s Slavic name], in tutte e due le lingue. (92)

This final example points to the important acknowledgment on Andrea’s part (on the author’s part, really) that English is the lingua franca in most locales, used during travel even by those whose native language is not, in fact, English. Andrea believes erroneously that his failure to communicate with the men in the trattoria stems from the wrong language selection, so he tries

243 his own language next, which proves equally ineffectual; their impassibility, he discovers, has nothing to do with language, but, rather, he was asking the wrong question.

A final indicator that Andrea and his compatriots and enemies are speaking in Italian can be found on PV 103, notably in the identification of the man’s Barese accent in his spoken Italian:

«Lo conosci?» domandai a Ludovico con un filo di voce. «No.» «Sì invece» rispose quello. Era italiano, un lieve accento barese.

It must be noted, too, that Dooley, despite her apparent contention about “speaking English in Italian” that permeates the whole universe of her novel and that of the A cena col vampiro series, welcomes Liz to Lisburn, in Ireland, with an unabashedly English sign: “Welcome to Lisburn” (RS 101). It feels appropriate, upon first glance, but it must be treated as different from Andrea’s conscious code-switch to “Good afternoon” on PV 92, as Dooley’s work is devoid of conscious indicators of code-switching, from Ethan’s extensive diary writings to Liz’s dealings with salespeople and customer-service staff to welcome signs in English-speaking parts of the world. This, I argue, is an accident, though it is an appropriate representation of the scene in which the plot unfolds.

In our globalised world, naturally few, if any, real-life existences or works of fiction can be truly immune to the influences of popular cultures. Thus, including the names of artists like Marilyn Manson (PV 37) and organisations such as the CIA (PV 108) is appropriate, as they are likely to be known to foreign audiences. Additionally, Bakunin appears as a poster on PV 8, a subtle indicator of Andrea’s anarchic beliefs (or façade). This last descriptor is exemplary of the thick boundary between the styles of Folgorata and De Nicolo, the former of whom unfailingly employs excessive diegesis rather than mimesis. Accompanying the poster of Mikhail Bakunin is one of I soliti sospetti (PV 8), the Italian name for the American film The Usual Suspects (1995).

Finally, a call-back to Mirta-Luna pops up unexpectedly in Raining stars in the form of the algul originating from the Arab world.345 A mild-mannered vampire named Daniel True teaches Liz about Lilith (RS 180–181); his very name and demeanour, too, may have their namesake in the journalist in Rice’s Interview with the Vampire who interviews Louis for his true story on how he

345 See pp. 132–133.

244 was born to darkness.346 In Daniel’s recounting, he tracks all of Lilith’s aliases and cultural permutations, including a notable one—the Goule or, with the Arabic article al, Algoule:

«Hai mai sentito parlare di Lilith? […] Per la tradizione ebraica fu la prima moglie di Adamo. Precedente anche ad Eva. Ma, secondo la cabala ebraica, per la sua ribellione al marito, Dio la allontanò dal paradiso terrestre. Divenne così un demone e, da allora, è conosciuta come la regina del male. […] Per gli Assiri era Lilitu. […] Gli arabi la chiamavano Giul, che trasformato in Goule significa… vampiro. […]» (RS 181)

The final points de suspension scarcely add suspense, as readers of the previous book in the series know exactly who Lilith is; however, the inclusion of this Old-Testament reference that has resurged in contemporary vampire romances in literature, television, and film points to a collective imagination, the works of which buttress one another and solidify the niche subgenre of the undead romance.

3.8 Onomatopoeia and Expressions from Comics

Unlike Palazzolo’s Trilogia, the A cena col vampiro books studied in this chapter appear to be mostly devoid of onomatopoeic expressions and borrowed terms from the world of comic books. Only a few examples stand out from each of the books: “il crak dell’osso del collo” (MR 54); “Toc, Toc. Stupido battente della porta” (MR 183), with “Toc, Toc” repeated twice more afterward; “Click. L’anta piccola sotto l’arcata, scattò” (MR 184), with Click featuring the redundant -ck- pairing taken from the English spelling, unnecessary in Italian to create the unvoiced velar stop; “Tum-tum tum-tum tum-tum […] Non sentivo altro. Solo il lento battito del mio cuore” (RS 7); “Bip Bip fece il telefono” (PV 86); “Clang fecero le sbarre, cedendo” (PV 126).

3.9 Borrowings from English, French, Dialect, and Other Languages

“Dunque dunque” (MR 70) presents a curious lexical-syntactic calque from English. The reduplication of these words is remarkable: modelled on “Well, well…” or, more commonly, “Well, well, well…” in English, they are typically uttered by a person who has caught someone in an illicit act or by someone who is found to be right about something upon which doubt had been cast. The example follows: «Dunque dunque, i temibili Rochester, sono qui tra noi inermi

346 Truly, his last name might also be a nod to the journalist’s role in and commitment to disseminating truth to readers via factual news reporting.

245

[…]». This phrase, amongst other select lexical and syntactic samples,347 feeds a hunch that Folgorata intends to mimic English syntax and expressions in order to imbue her Italian writing with British exoticism.

In Porcaccia, English words taken wholesale and blended with Italian pronunciation and writing, rather than anglicisms, are common. These range from more established words like START (PV 13), its use in Italian dating back to 1923,348 and self-service (13), from 1963, to more recent borrowings like skinhead (103), from 1983, and ESC (PV 97). The last example was a joyful discovery in this narration from the point of view of a millennial, a young person who had come of age in the epoch of computers and the Internet, an age in which pressing the “backspace,” “delete,” or “escape” keys—the last of which is usually abbreviated to ESC on computer keyboards—allows for a fresh start, a new beginning, essentially turning back time in a way that was rarely possible in tangible ways in previous generations. Indeed, Andrea, certainly a product of his generation, employs esc in this way, acknowledging that “real life” cannot be corrected by simply clicking “escape” and everyone must suffer the consequences of and take responsibility for their choices: “È tutto sbagliato, avrei voluto protestare, se a qualcuno fosse importato ascoltarmi. Ma io lì ero davvero un criceto e un criceto non può avanzare rimostranze né premere ESC” (97). Additional examples follow: I product manager (108); il check up (108);349 the amusing play on words in Sterminetor (27), combining sterminare and Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Terminator character, and Darth Veder (145), with spellings following Italian phonetics and morphology. Similar to the last two examples, “[…] mi misi a canticchiare «Gig va, cuore e acciaio»” (20) includes a reference to Jeeg Robot with a modified spelling to suit Italian phonetics,350 which is appropriate in Andrea’s Italian oral expression. Finally, these last two excerpts contain Arabic and Russian respectively, though, in the first, the Arabic word meaning “God willing” does not appear to be used correctly, seeming to instead mean “Thank God” or “Thank goodness”:

347 See section 2 in Chapter 4 (pp. 171–183). 348 This and the following years of first usage are listed under the entries for these words in Zingarelli. 349 To be compared with Dooley’s “Ceck-in”; see p. 198. 350 Jeeg Robot, uomo d’acciaio is a Japanese anime series from the 1970s (in Japanese: Kotetsu Zieg), which was, in turn, based on a Japanese manga of the same name (“Kotetsu Zieg (TV)”).

246

«Ce lo siamo già fumato tutto?» «Inshallah no», rispose con malinconia. (PV 31) «È parso strano anche a me, eppure non si è fatto vedere nessuno. Hai freddo? Sei impallidito.» «Nessuno nessuno?» «Nyet» accendendo il riscaldamento. (33)

A beautiful, poignant example of the importance of dialect in Andrea’s idiolect is made evident in the juxtaposition of these two descriptions on PV 75: “Mi sentivo scombussolato e turbato, incapace di archiviare quello che era successo, e nascondermi sotto la gonna di mammà sembrava la strategia vincente” and, four lines below, “Mamma era in cucina a sbattere le uova.” Both are parts of descriptive narrative, though Mammà has a stressed coda—indicated by the grave accent above the final —as opposed to the typical pronunciation pattern of the standard Mamma on the penultimate syllable. The imagery of hiding behind one’s mother’s skirt, especially when one discovers that childlike wish in a situation in adulthood, is tender, and this tenderness is amplified by the use of the dialectal vocative mammà and not the otherwise more neutral, yet still affectionate, standard vocative of mamma. He employs the word that he would use with his mother herself, recalling a simpler time—before “la vita seria.”351 Further indicators of this diminutive, precious use appears in this sweet exchange between Andrea and his mammina as they prepare lunch:

«[…] Il pane?» «Nella scarpiera» mi rispose. Il tenero humour della mia mammina. (PV 76)

Dialect expressions and regionalisms charmingly sprinkle the text of Porcaccia, lending an added dose of realness to the fantasy plot and differentiating it from the fabricated world of Liz and Ethan. The antonomasia of “Trapano del Tavoliere” (PV 17), for example, may feature a restricted use of trapano to refer to an extraordinarily annoying and insistent person, via the image of the continuous, repetitive, and insistent motion of a drill (Violapais).352 This friend of Andrea’s, who is a “drill of the Tavoliere area of Apulia,” may also have a second, more common meaning for his nickname—that is, with trapano standing in for the phallus, giving it a sexual connotation as well; thus, trapano can be used here as a vulgar euphemism for the male

351 See pp. 211–212 and 231–232 for more on the context and explanation of this, respectively. 352 “Da me si utilizza comunemente, e proprio con l’accezione di ‘persona fastidiosa e/o insistente’. La persona in oggetto viene paragonata ad un trapano, il cui rumore ha un’intensità ed un ritmo (ta-ta-ta-ta-ta) fastidiosi” (Violapais). Meanwhile, the user Trentaduesima validates the sexual connotations associated with the lexeme in his region of Italy: “Io l’ ho sentita usare solo in riferimento a prestazioni sessuali, da parte maschile.”

247 sex organ, though we do not know enough about its co-referent’s sexual habits or reputation to assume that this second meaning applies to him. Also, in the humorous «Andrea, quando vai a tagliarti quel pagghiaro che hai sulla testa?» (76), the antonomasia of pagghiaro corresponds to the Salentino dialect term of pagghiáru, meaning “capanna di pietra, di canne e paglia; fienile” or “pagliaio, capanna fatta di grossi rami e ricoperta di paglia o di strame secche” (Mancarella et al. 288). Pagghiaro refers specifically to the form of huts native to parts of Southern Italy, such as the province of Taranto, Apulia, where Andrea resides. Dialect shines in “tieni ragione” (145), in which tenere replaces avere for expressions like avere fame or avere ragione (Sobrero and Tempesta 131). Finally, using cristiani to refer to people in a generic manner also is an indicator of the local dialect’s influence on the language used by Andrea and his peers: “Zigzagai tra tavoli e cristiani e gli toccai il braccio” (44). While Zingarelli indicates its familiar usage to mean “Esser[i] uman[i],” Gian Battista Mancarella et al., in the Dizionario dialettale del Salento,353 define dialect usage of cristianu to mean, simply, “persona” (124).

The bar that Andrea and company frequent is called Samsara (PV 27), which is, in fact, a Sanskrit Buddhist term referring to “the endless cycle of death and rebirth to which life in the material world is bound [Sanskrit samsara a wandering through]” (“Samsara”). It is revealing that this is the place frequented by Andrea and his friends—Andrea, who declares himself to be suffering from the sindrome del criceto, a creature of habit and happily so. Like individuals suffering in samsara, Andrea does not know that he is unfulfilled until he falls in love with Ludovico, whose appearance and presence set Andrea free from his habits, his malleable and mistaken identity, and his perceived wants and desires. The otherworldly man, the undead Ludovico, seen as foreign from the beginning, sets Andrea free from this cycle of birth and death—perhaps, ultimately, by killing him in order to turn him into a vampire who is, by his very nature, free from the curse of dying.354

French words and syntagms appear in Porcaccia on occasion, such as in “un alone maudit attira

353 Though the plot takes place mostly in and around Bari, the Salento is still part of Apulia and its dialects share myriad traits with the other dialects of Apulia. Furthermore, even Leonardo Sciascia documents this usage of cristiano in his Alfabeto pirandelliano, which examines the Sicilian dialect terms employed by Pirandello: “significa generalmente uomo, persona non conosciuta, persona di cui si ignora il nome […]” (“Cristiano”). 354 With notable exceptions; see Ludovico’s soliloquy on pp. 162–163.

248 le femmine, sostiene [Domenico]” (PV 138). In Raining stars, a lonesome decolté (RS 35) makes an appearance, though spelled incorrectly. A more peculiar instance of francophonie is presented in Ludovico’s moribund delirium as he converses with Andrea, or whomever he is imagining Andrea to be:

«Avete mai viaggiato in una stiva, prima?» domandò chissà a chi, chissà quando. […] Gli porsi il braccio. Il taglio che mi avevano fatto non era profondo ma aveva sanguinato parecchio. «Fantastique, tu as trouvé la derniere bouteille de vin» disse. «E spicciati, scassaminchia che non sei altro» mormorai. […] «Je croyais queles les avaient toutes emiportées.» […] […] Sì, probabilmente non gli stavo facendo un gran favore ma ormai era tardi per i ripensamenti. «Il doit être délicieux.» «Inutile, tanto in francese capisco solo brioche.» «Tu es très gentil.» «Madonna quanto sei logorroico» feci, immobile. «Mais je ne me sens pas bien» concluse, allontanando il mio braccio, come nauseato. (PV 122–124)

In all of the books examined in A cena col vampiro, there are myriad instances of foreign nouns, proper nouns, or phrases being presented with an orthographic or grammatical error. Often, these errors appear to be accidental and, on many occasions, the deviance in spelling from the standard in the language of origin mirrors the phonetics of Italian (such as in Sterminetor in Porcaccia) or represents sincere obliviousness to the mechanics of the imported language’s spelling (as in Deja-vù in Raining stars).

In the case of Darth Veder, the situation is slightly more complex and does not involve editorial carelessness or an adaptation to Italian phonetics. Rather, Darth Veder is a hybrid form of two parallel phonemic groupings that coexist within the minds of Italians familiar with the Star Wars franchise: Dart Fener and Darth Vader. When the Star Wars films were first dubbed into Italian in the 1970s, many were adapted to be better suited to Italian audiences. As Lorenzo Forti eloquently explains, “Siamo, infatti, negli anni ’70, ancora lontani dalla rivoluzione di Internet, ed estranei a quel processo di inglobamento di termini anglosassoni che tanto caratterizza l’italiano odierno” (emphasis in original). Indeed, Forti acknowledges that, today, the presence of unadapted English names is not as alienating as it might have been in the past355 and that

355 According to the results of a poll conducted by Guerrestellari.net, just under half (44.4%) of fans surveyed voted in favour of employing the English “Darth Vader” for Episode 3 of the Star Wars franchise, while only a slight

249 adapting names for the target culture involves semantic loss—that is, the name “Vader,” for example, “doveva essere imponente e spaventoso allo stesso tempo (Vader è probabilmente la troncatura di in-vader, cioè invasore […])” (Forti).

Issues like the adaptation of the names of characters developed for foreign audiences must be analysed from all sides: when we examine brand names and proper names, we must take into account that the target culture consuming the products bearing adapted names is often doing so diachronically, where these very names in their different forms might oscillate between iterations across time periods, depending on the wishes of the consuming public and the creators of such media. As Somigli explains, it is important to recognise “la questione che [il pubblico ha] assorbito tutta questa cultura popolare in traduzione,” a public who then regurgitates, in a hybrid form, these evolved names.356 These names are translated not just from the source language into the target language; they are translated in the sense of being moved and of being adapted and transformed as a result of different hands across time having a say as to what shape these names should take. Italian audiences, as a result, have consumed the fiction of unique personages and franchises that have borne varied names over their lifetimes. For instance, Ferrari, in her notable work Since When Is Fran Drescher Jewish?, which studies the dubbing stereotypes of American television shows (in particular, The Nanny, The Simpsons, and The Sopranos), informs the reader of her own experience as an Italian living and studying in the United States. There, she discovers that The Nanny was not, in fact, centred around an “exotic and eccentric ‘Italian-American’ nanny” (as Fran Drescher’s character is adapted for Italian audiences; Ferrari 2), but, rather, it is about a Jewish-American woman named Fran Fine, from Flushing, Queens. Ferrari describes her momentary confusion when a colleague of hers, in her college classroom,

majority of fans (55.6%) voted to maintain the name to which Italians were accustomed, that is, “Dart Fener” (“Vader o Fener?”). 356 Darth Vader is not alone in having had his name shifted to accommodate Italian audiences, though the current trend is to “internationalise” the names of these characters (“Tutto deve essere internazionalizzato” [Somigli]). For instance, Spider-Man (and, later, Amazing Spider-Man) became the name of L’Uomo Ragno in Italy only in 1994 (Bono), while Avengers had been Vendicatori until the first film by the English name, The Avengers, was released in 2012 (Leggeri). Thus, for older audiences (which include all of the authors in the A cena col vampiro series), both forms are familiar (likely with the older adapted name preferred), while younger audiences are more likely to be familiar with the American name only. For an in-depth study on the effects of adapting foreign media for local audiences, beyond the topic of the adaptation of proper names, see Ferrari.

250

mentioned and criticized Drescher’s overly stereotypical portrayal of the Jewish American Princess in The Nanny. All of a sudden I was lost: “Since when is Fran Drescher Jewish?” I asked. That was the day I understood how different the “American” television I had watched in Italy was from the “original” television people were watching in the United States. […] All the references to Italian names, culture, and history, in fact, were created and added in translation by writers and dubbing practitioners looking for ways to domesticate American television for Italian audiences. (Ferrari 2; emphasis in original)

In the Italian program, Fran Fine from Queens becomes Francesca Cacace from Ciociaria (62– 63). Though, arguably, Italian audiences are unlikely to have Ferrari’s experience of viewing the show in both the original language and the dubbed version, for some consumers of adapted works, both the native-language name and the adapted one coexist, resulting in a continuum of forms such as we see in Darth Vader > Dart Fener > Darth Veder. Indeed, the authors of these books, considering their Gen-X appartenance, likely consumed imported television and film and associated products and franchises “in movimento, in traduzione, in varie forme” (Zambenedetti) and are, as a result, influenced by the various forms, consciously or otherwise, and are likely to reproduce these forms in their works.

Finally, in the French sentences uttered by Ludovico above, the first two spelling errors do not truly result in a change in pronunciation, though the final emiportées adds another syllable, as the lexeme should be emportées. The curious conclusion of this exchange between Andrea and Ludovico is that the reader discovers that it is not really an exchange at all: Andrea does not understand French. It must be, then, that De Nicolo and Andrea share this bit in common; to confirm this, in De Nicolo’s very acknowledgments at the end of her novel, she thanks “Arianne Argyroupoulos per aver tradotto le [sue] frasi”357 (PV 156).

3.10 Verb Tenses and Predilected Forms

There is little of note with regard to verbal agreement and tenses in these three books, in contrast with the series of Mirta-Luna. In these three books, only a small number of exemplars showcase sentences differing from standard verbal conjugations; in most cases, these appear in dialogue, reflecting the deviations from the standard that occur in colloquial and regional varieties of Italian: «Se ti dovesse capitare qualcosa di male non mi perdonerò mai… […]» (MR 46); «Dovevate pensarci prima di sterminare Hector e la guardia!» (MR 96); “Io tentai di gridare ad

357 Considering the spelling errors, however, it could be that even Argyroupoulos’s command of French is only slightly better than De Nicolo’s (and Andrea’s).

251

Alessandro che dopo ‘sta battuta penosa faceva bene a infilargli una testa d’aglio tu sai dove […]” (PV 29). Instead of favouring an unmarked sentence employing the indicative past conditional in the first exemplar, that is, “Avreste dovuto pensarci prima,” Folgorata presents a form using the imperfect of the indicative that is a closer reflection of the spontaneous construction that might arise in a native Italian speaker’s colloquial expression. Verbal conjugations of these types are infrequent in Folgorata’s and Dooley’s texts, as I have explained elsewhere, so it is welcome here.

All three authors relate their protagonists’ stories as events having already begun, unfolded, and concluded in the past, with a few exceptions that I will explain below. The passato remoto, the imperfect, and the pluperfect of the indicative are preferred throughout the three books, in the third-person narration of Moonlight rainbow, in the first-person narrations of Raining stars, with the “I narrator” changing from section to section in accordance with the changing story-tellers, and in Porcaccia, un vampiro!

Though Andrea and his comrades employ the present perfect to talk about completed past actions in their dialogic interactions, De Nicolo chooses to have Andrea, as the first-person narrator, follow the Italian literary standard of using the passato remoto to relate events occurring in the past. Still, just like with Mirta’s first-person narration in the Trilogia, Andrea’s is characterised by a certain metalinguistic awareness, wherein the speaker appears to uphold some objectivity or neutrality in the face of the narrated events, in terms of his delivery of the unfolding circumstances. Nevertheless, the first-person narrator brings subjectivity, personability, and personality to the plot’s narration by, naturally, using the first-person singular pronoun, cursing, making fun of his friends, providing play-by-play descriptions of even ultra-mundane tasks (like looking up a book at the library), and expressing thoughts that would otherwise remain a secret to the reader if the story were a third-person account. Amidst this expertly constructed narration on the part of De Nicolo, the verb conjugations, on the whole, adhere to standard forms.

In Raining stars, Ethan and Liz favour the present indicative, present perfect, and, of course, the imperfect for descriptions in their composed writing. The present is an appropriate choice for Ethan in his diary entries, effectively bringing the reader closer to the action and making his adventures, tragedies, and angst more vivid, alive, present, and real. Often, too, in reveries about each other, Liz and Ethan vainly address the other’s phantom directly and thus use a blend of the

252 present indicative and present and past conditionals to scold, praise, or question each other in the present and in the past, using the present perfect to wonder about past actions and states of mind: “Ethan, dannato Ethan come puoi, come hai potuto… Non lo voglio il paradiso. Vorrei perdermi in te, nel tuo amore: per me, non esiste altro. […] Per me esisti tu, il resto è nulla. […]” (RS 57).

To conclude this section, I must add that a truly curious convention was selected by De Nicolo in the latter sixth of her book that caught my attention only upon a second reading. As previously underlined, the book is diaristic and follows a stream-of-consciousness style of narration by Andrea. In the majority of the book, though it is all told by Andrea who employs the remote past and the imperfect for the narration, suddenly, starting in Chapter 11 (PV 129) and continuing until the end of the book (154), Andrea narrates the unfolding events in the present indicative; his interlocutor remains tu, but it is a defined one: one of two carabinieri nicknamed il Mastino only at the end of the narrative—the very tu that is addressed at the beginning of the short novel: “Le minacce sono inutili. Ti racconterò tutto, se ci tieni, ma forse dopo non ne sarai molto contento. Ad ogni modo, ricorda che la scelta è tua” (5). A few short paragraphs later, the narration commences, from “un momento X.” From that point forward, the narration employs the verb forms outlined above, and only at the very end does the reader join Andrea in the present, though it is not truly the present. Indeed, with the perspective that the young man has from the beginning, the reader hesitantly discovers that what Andrea said at the start of the novella was true, after all: the story is told out of order. In accordance with Andrea’s stated belief on PV 5, “Il tempo, visto dalla nostra prospettiva rasoterra, non è una retta, è una matassa ai cui nodi ci sono gli accadimenti importanti. Tutto per dire che non capisco se un fatto è la causa di qualcosa oppure sta lì senza portare da nessuna parte.” He concludes, eloquently, that trying to order these events is akin to “Una sega mentale, come direbbe […] Loris.”

De Nicolo, via Andrea, takes the reader for a ride, hopping from past to present with all of the narrated events having unfolded and completed, and by the end of the book, one can only assume that Andrea is with Ludovico, living happily (ever after?) on the run. Appropriately, however, with an immortal existence that lasts potentially infinitely, the two men could run eternally, forever possessing a past that grows longer and longer, a future that knows no end, and a present whose limits are blurred at either side: “Noi due continuiamo a correre, mentre penso che nessuno può scappare in eterno. Nessuno può tagliar via la propria ombra. Ci sono mali che non guariscono. Ci sono ferite che non cicatrizzano, tuttavia puoi curarle perché non t’infettino a

253 morte” (154). They cannot run forever, but, in adherence with undead-romance fantasy, with eternity at their disposal, Andrea and Ludovico can forget about the limitations of the natural mortal world and the legal authorities who wish to capture Ludovico. By each other’s side, they can focus on anything and everything else; as Andrea alludes mysteriously at the end of the book, “E poi ci sono altre cose” (154), leaving their fate about as open as an eternal happily ever after.

4 Summary and Conclusions

In the previous sections, a variety of useful formatting devices were introduced, chosen individually by each author, as few conventions overlap throughout this collection gathered under the title of A cena col vampiro. What unites the first two books is the very apparent lack of competent editorial skill or presence on the part of the publisher, resulting in books that are plagued with punctuation issues and orthographic errors that could easily be avoided under correct guidance, as the editor, Folgorata/Montanari is comfortable admitting. In Raining stars, though italics are useful to separate narration and dialogue from instances of characters who are reading or writing, I would argue that the bold-face type is distractingly jarring, especially for long excerpts. Déjà-vus and memories could sport italics instead without resulting in any loss of clarity between the separation of narration and recollections. Rounded quotation marks for thoughts work well, though these are not consistently or clearly used, as new paragraphs describing the same lines of thought do not reliably bear initial quotation marks to indicate that the thought continues. Unreliable punctuation, orthography, and formatting are certainly a theme in Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars, though it is much less of a problem in Porcaccia, un vampiro!

If there is one merit to the messiness of the writing, it is that it reflects the carefree and un–self- conscious tone and effort of exchanging e-mail with friends or family—which is essentially how these stories came to fruition. First shared in an online forum, the texts possess a freedom that allows the personality and interests of the authors to bleed through, since their works were edited by members of their shared community of adoring eyes eager to consume new versions of old

254 love stories, without a care as to the formalities or conventions of written words.

Evidently from the language in play in Porcaccia as well as in Mirta-Luna, though much less so in Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars, “è fortissima (e sempre più in crescita) la spinta ludica, scherzosa e creativa di LG, attribuibile anche ad una competenza linguistica in progress, ancora in fase di elaborazione e di sperimentazione” (Coveri 16). Indeed, as the undead romance continues its struggle of setting down roots in this scarcely fertile literary ground, these works of fan fiction and slash fiction fare better when they replicate what they know and experience and how they speak, as De Nicolo does with Cespuglio in Porcaccia.

Meanwhile, though the lexicon is certainly less inventive and interesting in the works of Folgorata and Dooley, there is value in their imitation of an established genre with conventional standards used to set and fulfill expectations. As Duffett explains, “[F]anfic’s informal creation and distribution fosters an abundant sense of creative freedom within fan networks, allowing writers to play God, have things their way, evolve universes and challenge taboos (Jenkins 2006, 86–7)” (Duffett 171). Although Folgorata and Dooley do not appear to take the risks that Jenkins and Duffett outline as part of the gracious liberties of fan-fiction universes, they have taken small, inconspicuous steps to challenge authorities and expectations simply by rewriting and reworking pieces of literature in whose titanic shadow they chose to exist. In this shadow, they can feel free to explore, challenge, and sample without the glare of spotlights, but I maintain that their growth and success were stunted without the adequate support of a skilled editorial team.

De Nicolo’s proficiency in wielding lexemes that support her environment, characters, dialogues, and emotions is remarkable. Manifestly in the language in play in Porcaccia as well as in Mirta- Luna, and much less so in Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars (whose protagonist, though only 18, does not speak about or hint at an interest in education), this ludic and jocular instinct to which Coveri (16, 20) alludes is entirely present and alive. With university life and the academic sphere playing active roles in the lives of Andrea and Mirta, these two characters exhibit a facility with word play, frequent references to literature, and general linguistic risk-taking that are masterfully adapted into these supernatural stories. De Nicolo, I believe, is the true champion in this series in terms of successfully challenging taboos and cultural customs, building on the works of others who have similarly questioned expectations in this genre, as with Rice and Harris, and still disputing conventions with regard to the stage set by previous paranormal-

255 romance authors, like Meyer herself. De Nicolo’s masterful execution of blending the language of youth and all of its colourful sources and linguistic resources into her writing make this piece of literature a victorious work of undead romance.

Folgorata, Dooley, and De Nicolo very traditionally submit to the Grammar Gods in their obeisance of the sequence of tenses, using the subjunctive in most circumstances that call for it and even in dialogue; few instances of nonstandard, ungrammatical, or marked usage in this regard stand out. Stefanelli, in her analysis of contemporary writings by young authors, and specifically in her examination of “scritture femminili” in non-traditional publication spaces like blogs—or online forums, I would add, as this is whence the A cena col vampiro stories came— observes a dialogic style in the writings of young women that “è realizzato con mezzi estremamente tradizionali” (123). She emphasises, furthermore, that there is a hypermediality to these crafted dialogues, in the sense that they appear to recall very simple and simplistic conversations that “ricalca[no] fedelmente il modello di certa fiction televisiva” (123). The dialogue in Folgorata’s and Dooley’s books possesses this trait, though in the sections in this chapter on giovanilese and orality, I dealt specifically with and was more interested in how their fictional oral expression was transcribed in these books.358 Stefanelli, along with Antonelli, spells out what is going on:

Non stupisce quindi che, alla fine degli anni novanta, alcune linguiste abbiano posto il problema della necessità per la scrittura femminile di svincolarsi da una persistente eredità di modi intimistici e emotivi. […] Antonelli, nell’introdurre un’analisi della prosa di Susanna Tamaro, ricorda come […] «una delle presunte caratteristiche riscontrate nel comportamento linguistico femminile sarebbe la maggior sensibilità alle forme di prestigio o, se si preferisce, il maggiore attaccamento allo standard».359 (Stefanelli 123)

Stefanelli’s and Antonelli’s explanations shed light on the repetition of verbs and other lexical items outside of dialogue tags in the series and the insistence on certain actions, namely ringhiare, fremere, mormorare, sussultare, bisbigliare, sussurare, piangere, and accarezzare, and, more importantly, on the stubborn adherence to a standard. Without an established Italian undead-romance genre or undead-romance antecedents upon which to base their writings—or from which to defiantly deviate—these three women follow the styles of their predecessors in the

358 See section 3.1 (pp. 206–213). 359 In Antonelli, L’italiano nella società della comunicazione (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2007) 93.

256 romance genre, a genre that is heavily codified and that dictates strict confines and boundaries within which writers must operate and build their romance tales. This outcome is inevitable in a subgenre of fan fiction that is based on a work that is itself a recycling and repurposing of previous works of romance literature in the English-speaking world. Without any bravery to deviate from the norm, even in an area as seemingly insignificant as that of verbal forms, a truly Italian undead-romance might struggle to survive. By following English or Italian hypermedia strategies, these works remain nothing but new fiction with strings of words woven differently. It is therefore understandable that these women, consciously or otherwise, have adopted pre- existing verb forms to construct their tales: it satisfies expectations, allows their works to exist in a genre, and does not gratuitously challenge readers who wish for an easy read.

As Giselle Liz Anatol proclaims, critics have used words like “‘insipid’, ‘vapid’, ‘shallow’, and ‘sexist’” to describe the Twilight series, and one of her children’s literature students “commented, ‘[Meyer]’s writing is about as deep as a puddle’ […], deficient in both style and depth when compared to the Harry Potter series” (4)—which says a lot. That said, even if the works are poorly or simplistically written, if they tell a story that fulfills or exceeds the reader’s romance expectations, the formula followed and the conventions adopted will not matter—only love and (un)death will.360

360 See Sangiorgi and Venturi 110; see p. 14 in Chapter 1.

257

Chapter 6 Conclusion: What Is Next for the Undying, or Is It Relevant to Speak of the Future of Immortal Beings?

1 So What?

At the 48th annual Northeast Modern Languages Association (NeMLA) conference in Baltimore, Maryland, I received two important questions about my research. One was posed by a professor and friend who was unfamiliar with my research; she, of course, asked the classic question: “So what?” Since she is also my friend, she kindly reworded it as, “What is innovative about these books that you’re researching?”

I had a response ready for her; it was an echo of the answer to a question that caught me relatively off-guard after I had presented a paper at that conference, entitled “‘When love and death embrace’: Hybridity in Chiara Palazzolo’s Trilogia di Mirta-Luna.”361 The question, posed to me by a fellow presenter at a session called “Italian Fantastic Literature”—thus, a panel of scholars dedicated to niche literature like I was—was the following: “What makes this series Italian?” I pondered for as long as one can ponder in front of an audience: What makes the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna Italian? This scholar was a kindred spirit: he asked this question because he, too, had been challenged in such a way with his own research. “Well, the books are written in Italian and they’re set in Italy,” I managed. Acting as the devil’s advocate by channelling his own professors, he retorted, “That’s not enough.”

So, what is it about these Italian undead-romance novels—and not just the Trilogia—that makes them innovative? How can these books still be considered Italian despite their literary origins’ lying in another country or continent? While they may be built upon a style and a genre modelled

361 HIM, “When Love and Death Embrace,” Greatest Love Songs Vol. 666 (BMG, 1997).

258 by anglophone authors, what makes these Italian works innovative, I maintain, is that they were written at all—that they exist at all.

The undead romance, regardless of the language in which its prose is composed, features undead creatures with taboo hungers and thirsts. And just like these reviled creatures who hide or have hidden in the shadows, lest they be discovered and destroyed, the undead romance has thrived or been tolerated only in certain cultures and in specific time periods. As I mentioned in my introductory chapter, the versatility of the vampire myth’s symbolism makes this blood-sucker the ideal “shape-shifter” (Ide), who can

take the form of society’s fears at any particular time. Thus in the 1920s an emancipated, sexually aggressive young woman, unsettling for society, was labelled a “vamp”; her wicked ways would leach the very manhood from her unfortunate victim. Later on, the vampire would come to symbolise, among other things, Aids and drug addiction (Abel Ferrera’s The Addiction) but it could also represent the allure of the outlaw or rebel, the cool gang to which everyone secretly wanted to belong, as in Joel Schumacher’s The Lost Boys. But most of all[,] the vampire represents the outsider […].

Rice’s vampires were born in a tumultuous personal era, amidst Rice’s private grief over the death of her infant daughter, and in a turbulent and confusing societal period in which HIV and AIDS carriers were demonised, feared, and rejected. In an analogous manner, vampires Lestat and Louis in Interview with the Vampire (1976) must also exist on the fringes of society, choosing to live lives of isolation rather than exist with others of their kind or share space with the questioning and bewildered gaze of humans. Their very existence was taboo and disbelieved, unlike in Harris’s Southern Vampire Mysteries, in which vampirism is “legal” and vampires are “out of the coffin”; nevertheless, as is still often the case, unfortunately, with LGBTQ folks who are “out of the closet” (hence Harris’s tongue-in-cheek expression), conservative and right-wing groups often outwardly reject the existence of such a portion of the populace and sow fear and discord about “abnormal” or “taboo” urges, not willing to celebrate or acknowledge the existence of those who are unlike the “mainstream” populace.

Such archaic attitudes are still common in the societies that gave birth to the literary vampire, but many of these societies have also progressed to allow all of its members, regardless of gender or sexual orientation, to be married in civil ceremonies and share equal rights with all. While attitudes are certainly changing in Italy, many of the social freedoms enjoyed in North America and the United Kingdom have not been granted to the same sections of the population in Italy. As I mentioned in the introductory chapter of this dissertation, while I was curious about what

259 the lack of undead-romance literature in Italy might signify, I did not make any grand claims about finding the answer in this linguistic and stylistic study. Still, I suggested the following, christening it a beacon to guide my research: “What can we learn about contemporary Italian culture by studying the burgeoning genre of Italian undead-romance novels?” Even with hindsight being 20/20 and as I write these concluding pages, I find this to be a perplexing question without a definite or clear answer. Is there anything that can be gleaned from this research to allow us to make any assumptions about the culture in which these writings are produced?

Though still uncertain, I may have a hypothesis that I would like to explore in subsequent research and analysis: recent waves of immigration to the country are still causing shockwaves amongst native Italian communities, resulting in either an embrace of new ideas and cultures or a rise in racism, fear, and demonising of the “other.” In this sociocultural landscape, explorations of artistic genres and subgenres with foreign origins that feature acts and individuals that are still considered taboo or strange in the host culture have little local support and still do not have a permanent or safe home in Italy. Progress takes time. Therefore, the Italianness of these books by Italian authors remains superficial at first glance: they are written in Italian and, in some cases, the plot is set in Italy and the characters are Italian. Beyond that, what makes these books special or notable? As I mentioned earlier, it is the fact that they exist at all in a landscape that may be hostile to their existence. Like the undead protagonists of these books, their very existence is remarkable in a literary world that denies or would prefer to deny their existence.362

We might think of Italian music as well: no one doubts that Italian pop exists (and thrives!); pop music exists in almost all cultures and appeals to the masses, hence its name: it is popular. But if one imagines Italian goth or punk music, it might seem far-fetched, because the genres seem so tightly glued to their origins in Scandinavia or England or the United States. Still, Italian goth and punk bands exist and their existence is validated by their fanbase, and the bands sing in Italian and thus their Italianness need not be called into question and they satisfy a niche in their target culture. So, why should Italian works of literature be questioned? Similarly, English or Italian manga is no less English or Italian simply because manga is a Japanese medium. As I

362 See Brolli V–X, quoted on p. 88 in Chapter 2.

260 explain in Chapters 2 and 3 and later in this concluding chapter, despite Palazzolo’s use of McCarthy’s dialogic framework, for example, and Wittgenstein’s diaries, Palazzolo’s works do not become less Italian or even un-Italian by their featuring models employed by authors from other countries.

In 2005, Palazzolo was writing in a genre that was just about to explode, but she had been part of an Italian niche for years, having published La casa della festa in 2000 and I bambini sono tornati in 2003. She had been taking a risk, like her sopramorti, coming out of the shadows and publishing her work in a market that was not especially welcoming of undead romances or horror novels, as Brolli perhaps cynically indicated.363 But if she, an Italian, had a wish to share stories about the undead, surely there had to be others like her who wanted to read them. Meanwhile, the A cena col vampiro series may have been involved in less risk, as its American predecessor in Meyer had shone floodlights on vampiric creatures with the Twilight Saga. Indeed, Meyer had begun to sate a burgeoning thirst for such stories that followed the “growing trend towards a more sympathetic treatment of the vampire” (Ide)—a series and a trend that were apparently predeceased, so to speak, by director Neil Jordan’s 1994 film adaptation of Rice’s “Interview with the Vampire and its elegant examination of the crippling ennui of immortality” (Ide), rendering the vampire (and perhaps, by extension, the other) more human and less taboo in English-speaking contexts.

What makes these works innovative is exactly the same reason why their undead creatures are remarkable: their existence, like their thirst, is feared and loathed, but the demand for and interest in them is, nonetheless, always there, a perennial source of intrigue and even lust, and there is always someone longing and ready for a drink.

2 While These Books Are Written in Italian, Some Are Not Really Italian

363 See p. 88 in Chapter 2.

261

There are, of course, exceptions to the rule of fictional vampirism’s perennial existence on the Italian sidelines, which arise thanks to the different and accepted media in which vampirism is featured. As Marco Arnaudo elaborated in his research on Dylan Dog, Italian readers have long welcomed the vampire into their homes within the borders of Tiziano Sclavi’s comic strips. Additionally, True Blood (aired first by Fox and then by MTV in Italy [Ferrara]) and the Twilight films adapted for worldwide audiences provided mainstream examples of the progressive opening of Italian hearts to romantic stories featuring the paranormal.

Nonetheless, it is harder to tell with the niche publications studied in this thesis how open Italian hearts really are to the undead-romance phenomenon. Of course, Piemme, the publisher of the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna, is of some prominence, while Mamma/Òphiere is a minuscule independent player, but, still, these stories are far less known. Why? When it comes to literature, is there still, as Brolli explains, a reluctance to delve into the darker regions of our psyche, of potential future experiences, of unlimited grotesqueness and infinite immortal beauty? Perhaps it is the clichéed and stereotypical Italian obsession with the past that prevents the Italian mindset from embracing the idea of romance with an infinite future. As I mention earlier, these are all hypotheses that I do hope to delve into in the future.

In sum, I do not believe that I can surmise what, if any, assumptions might be made about contemporary Italian culture resulting from the slow but steady rise of the Italian undead romance. If there is a statement to be made to this regard, it would be simply that the contemporary Italian undead romance arises from a creative fount that bursts forth from the collective consciousness facilitated by the existence of technological advances that allow individuals from one country to interact with individuals—and, importantly, their media—from another country. Borders barely exist in the realm of the Internet, and the ease with which translations of works written originally in other languages are made available makes it so that artists and creators can consume and draw inspiration from works that may never have crossed their radar in previous epochs. Indeed, were it not for the Internet, I might not have not come across the works of Palazzolo, De Nicolo, Dooley, and Folgorata at all. While it may have taken longer for alternative trends to “cross the pond” in the past, today, it can happen in the literal blink of an eye, allowing for members of lesser-known or -appreciated subcultures to find and support each other, as Busse, Duffett, Erzen, and Jenkins all explore in their research on fans and fan communities online and in real life. And now, with this research, I feel honoured to have

262 become a part of this community that would have remained unknown to me if I were not a speaker of Italian living in Italy during the time of publication of these works.

While I can confidently refute the challenge that the books by Palazzolo and De Nicolo are anything but Italian, defending the Italianness of Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars is an undertaking that I cannot assertively entertain. I believe that the names of the characters, the locations, the measurements used (miglia instead of chilometri, for example), and even the syntax in these two books make it difficult for the Italian reader to not feel alienated. Indeed, more so than the potential alienation of reading fantasy featuring undead creatures of which our world has none, the language and style proper of these works of fan fiction threaten to estrange the reader, even the one who relishes exoticism in her literature. Furthermore, one of the few instances in which the syntax was characteristic of Italian orality, I was struck, because it was completely out of place in comparison with the rest of the narration («Mah, un po’ di brodo che male ci fa?» [MR 86]).

Despite their perceived linguistic and stylistic failings, Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars do obey the rules of seriality, as outlined in Chapter 1. To recall the traits underlined by Ricci, “la serialità promuove prevedibilità e la reiterazione stilistica” (285); even the titles of romance works—not to mention the obvious pseudonyms of the authors, themselves a romance trope—set the expectations of readers. The “caratterizzazione strutturale e semantica dei titoli, scelti in modo tale da orientare agevolmente il lettore verso il genere prediletto” (285), mean that there are no surprises. In fact, “What You See Is What You Get” could feasibly be the motto for the A cena col vampiro books, as it could be for the romance genre in general. Finally, still in perfect alignment with the characteristic paraliterary work, the simplistic linguistic expression employed in these works of fan fiction by Dooley and Folgorata reflects the strategic intent to grab the attention of popular audiences (Ricci 286);364 as I indicate in Chapter 1, the umbrella of paraliterature under which the undead romance falls embraces works whose language is necessarily uninteresting and suffused with mediocrity because it seeks to reflect “una varietà più accettata dell’italiano” (Ricci 287)—not necessarily more bland but, perhaps, inevitably easier to understand, in contrast with high-brow literature that may be more complex and is less likely to

364 See p. 20 in Chapter 1.

263 be quickly consumed (as the name romanzo di consumo suggests for paraliterature).

In this sense, Dooley and Folgorata have proven themselves to be triumphant in demonstrating their paraliterary prowess in creating the fan-fictional world of Ethan and Liz and their vampiric and human families. The simplicity of their work is not a failure; nay, it is a victory, as they operate and fit snugly amongst the lingo, style, and plot conventions of the traditional romance novel—and they can proudly vaunt being amongst the early adopters, so to speak, of Italian fan fiction, a subgenre that I aim to research more deeply in the future, namely in Italian fanfic’s professional publications with robust teams of professional editors and a major publisher, should such works exist. For now, as I studied in Chapter 5, the low-quality writing of these works is an obstacle to these publications’ being taken seriously. Indeed, their inferior quality reflects the limited access to editing resources in conjunction with a perhaps urgently-felt need to publish within the brief window of time during which all eyes were on the romantic vampire. Mamma Editori, no doubt, wished to cash in (literally and figuratively) on this occasion while the opportunity in Italy still existed.

Despite this generic victory, it must be noted that comparing Dooley and Folgorata to Palazzolo and even De Nicolo is like comparing apples and… spinach. At the risk of oversimplifying, both are fit to be consumed by their respective—or crossover—audiences. Nevertheless, I, a native English speaker, could not become engrossed by the writing of saccharine and uninspired prose of Dooley and Folgorata, as the typographical errors, awkward syntax, and inconsistent references took me far from the plot—but I, as well, am not the intended audience of these works,365 which bears mentioning. In contrast, De Nicolo produced a work that was so profoundly Italian that a reader outside of the target audience would find him- or herself at times estranged from the very precise cultural references that are almost exclusively linked to giovanilese and dialect and to the youth and dialect-speakers who employ such languages. The syntax of the narration and the close mirroring of the dialogue to actual Italian orality were fully engrossing in De Nicolo and, thus, made it difficult, if not impossible, to question the Italianness of this author’s book and its plot.

365 I also work and have worked as a proofreader, so my bar is set unfairly and unnaturally high.

264

3 Mirta-Luna Hits a Home Run in a League of Her Own

The similarities between the Trilogia di Mirta-Luna and Porcaccia, un vampiro! are undeniable, namely because they are both set in Italy and feature traits of orality that reflect the universe of their readers. Palazzolo and De Nicolo even shared similar literary idols. Indeed, Palazzolo had explicitly indicated that all of her influences stemmed from North America or the United Kingdom: “Prior to her death in 2012, Palazzolo had declared her inspirations as Poe, Hawthorne, LeFanu, Lovecraft, Stoker, and Stephen King—‘il maestro’” (Verrengia qtd. in Vani 9). De Nicolo lists some overlapping literary idols, most of which are from the United States, but she also includes a few Italian ones: “Michail Bulgakov, Stephen King, Italo Svevo, Laurell [K.] Hamilton, Edgar Allan Poe, Christopher Moore, Luigi Pirandello, Shirley Jackson”; also, at the time of her interview, she was reading British writer Neil Gaiman’s American Gods (“Un’ intervista con Giusy De Nicolo”).

Still, the Trilogia exists on a plane of its own. With a plot that takes place in Italy, a first-person narration that closely imitates Italian orality, and linguistic and stylistic traits that mirror contemporary works of Italian fiction outside of this (sub)genre, this trilogy, too, is infused with Italian blood. Palazzolo firmly ensconces herself amongst other Italian authors of young-adult fiction and not just young-adult undead romances. Palazzolo’s works came to fruition after the Vampire Chronicles and concurrently with the Twilight series, so the Sicilian author did not truly benefit from anyone paving the way toward the acceptance of or devotion to her undead creatures as the A cena col vampiro books did. Indeed, just like Mirta-Luna, Palazzolo’s Trilogia had to learn to survive and thrive on its own, without its “maker” to support it. Furthermore, I believe that its creative, unique, and intellectual style of story-telling, all while featuring qualities bringing it closer to the Italian vernacular of its readers, merits being passed on to a different host culture, achieving immortality beyond the sphere of Italian teen lit and horror of the early 2000s. This is the immediate and direct extension of my research on this series and the undead romance in general: I have made it my personal duty to undertake the translation of the Trilogia di Mirta- Luna into English, having obtained the rights for translation from Terminelli, Palazzolo’s widower, and presently in talks with literary agents to pitch the work to North American publishers.

265

In my talks with Terminelli, the journalist elucidated his late wife’s explicit choices with regard to her prose style, stating from the beginning, “Lo stile usato da Chiara non è casuale.”366 This intentional collage of styles employed by Palazzolo flows smoothly, the tapestry’s colours never clashing but only blending, almost bleeding viscerally into each other, to form a unique pulchritudinous whole worthy of engagement, appreciation, and respect, due to the painstaking efforts executed behind the scenes. This being said, it would be all too easy to say, given Palazzolo’s stated emulation of McCarthy’s style,367 that she falls right into the same trap as Dooley and Folgorata—that is, that she is writing an English book in Italian. Superficially, commonalities are apparent, but the surface is where the commonalities stop, apart from a few coincidences. The Road and the Trilogia, for example, share the unlikely trait of featuring anthropophagous characters, though in importantly opposing circumstances.368 McCarthy’s other works also comprise a wealth of material to study and a particular style to absorb, including the notable “frase spezzata” and the missing punctuation marks that Terminelli describes. As a final note on the common characteristics of these works—though the present reader may return to Chapter 2 to review more of these commonalities—it may be important to underline that both works were written in the early years of the 2000s; indeed, it may be that the most recent turn of the century and the possibility of the end of the world brought about by “Y2K” were much more present in the collective consciousness even in the early 2000s than many authors could knowingly appreciate.

Palazzolo’s Trilogia, though featuring a cohesive confluence of stylistic qualities, still stands as a unique work in the subgenre of the undead romance. Its style and its plot are completely unlike those fanfic works of Palazzolo’s contemporaries: while the latter sought to emulate a language and style already existent and with multiplicities of iterations and reiterations abroad, Palazzolo innovated a style all her own, using the established templates of those who preceded her. While it is a declared mixture of the style of others—a stylistic reflection of the linguistic maccheronic

366 See p. 64 in Chapter 2 for the full description and justification of Palazzolo’s conventional style provided by Terminelli. 367 If one were to wish to do so, a side-by-side comparison of the first page of McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic The Road (2006) with p. 22 of Palazzolo’s Non mi uccidere would yield deliciously apparent commonalities. 368 In The Road, characters turn to cannibalism as a last resort. In the Trilogia, Mirta-Luna’s sopramorto nature allows her body to be fuelled only by live human flesh; she has no other option.

266 style employed by Andrea in Porcaccia, in itself an accurate reflection of the sociolinguistic patterns of today’s youth—she imbues it with her own narrative that unfolds in spaces and places familiar to the Italian reader, featuring the acts and thoughts of a protagonist who lives and breathes the same air as the reader. Palazzolo rebuilds the bildungsroman with an immortal and ultra-powerful heroine in the unusual sub-generic realm of the undead romance.

If we continue to compare and contrast the Trilogia with The Road, Italy with North America, we find further divergences: in the post-apocalyptic genre in English-speaking countries, the writers and fictional heroes (or anti-heroes) of such works are predominantly Caucasian men, though this is beginning to change; Palazzolo, a woman, creates an environment befitting a young woman and in which this young woman grows and thrives, despite her own motley vulnerabilities and vices. Furthermore, in contrast with the protagonists of The Road, the protagonist in Palazzolo’s work is female.

And if, still, we continue to compare and contrast the Trilogia with the works of Palazzolo’s contemporaries in the realm of Italian fan fiction, we can see that, while the latter start with a previously-established conventional frame (in the shape of the romance novel), plot (equally romantic), and characters (though by different names), Palazzolo imbues the Trilogia with her own flesh and blood. She allows a 20th-century Austrian-British philosopher to affect and colour the dialogue of her 19-year-old protagonist with the girl’s phantom confidante; she uses her own backyard as the backdrop of this tragic romanzo di formazione; and she welcomes her American contemporary in McCarthy into her world by borrowing his remarkable style. And then she lets her own words and her own world breathe life into it.

This is what facilitates the comparison between Palazzolo’s Trilogia di Mirta-Luna and Porcaccia, un vampiro! by De Nicolo. These authors’ works occupy identical horror-romance spaces, employing similar conventions and appealing to the same audience who appreciates some “realness”—in the form of prose that reflects how the reader actually speaks and environments that are familiar to the reader—in their fantastical horror romances. Additionally, in their tense romantic situations with bleak potential outcomes, amidst a world more inimical than beneficent, these works call to mind the sense of “Apocalypse [being] […] commonly interpreted to mean the end of the world” (Seger 139); it would be easy to give up on undead love, to the detriment of one’s own hopeful view of the world, surrendering, thus, to a desolate,

267 forlorn, and barren landscape of lovelorn loss. But our protagonists (though this is more the case with Andrea in Porcaccia, who actually has a happy ending) choose the path of growth, change, tough choices, and worthwhile vulnerability. Rather than facing the end of the world, when the protagonists have their sense of familiarity swept out from under their feet and no longer know if they can stand, they embrace the alternative side to “apocalypse,” as “the term possesses another meaning as well: ‘revelation’ or ‘disclosure’, often of something not realized before” (Seger 139). Indeed, both Mirta and Andrea discover vital new aspects about themselves through the end of their innocent adolescence—and the beginning of their maturity and adulthood. In contrast, Liz, in her new, powerful guise as a vampire, suffers to the point of eliciting pity in her vampiric kin and becomes a lesser version of herself; rather than thriving in her undying freedom, as Mirta-Luna and Andrea do, Liz is faced with the possible undoing of her immortality, the proffered turning back of time. In real life, this is not an option; as in the Trilogia and in Porcaccia, the only way out is through, and through their tribulations, like the young adults who read about them, Mirta-Luna and Andrea learn and mature.

The prose of the hyper-romantic undead romances of Folgorata and Dooley, unrelatable in terms of language and environment, is devoid of this realness. Perhaps this is a reflection of a more revelatory writing style: while Palazzolo and De Nicolo select mimesis over diegesis, Folgorata and Dooley betray their opposite practice by obsessively telling rather than showing. Indeed, characters in the works of these last two authors are presented to the reader with their proper names immediately, sometimes with an explanation of who they are, with physical traits dominating descriptions along with an emphasis on external pulchritude. Dialogue consistently feels contrived, allowing for few opportunities for the reader to view any type of authenticity in the interactions of the characters. And yet even when Andrea, in Porcaccia, is acting out his shameful homophobia, he is still a relatable character, as he demonstrates frail and flawed humanity; even his preternatural paramour exhibits human traits, which infuse him with a likeability that is difficult to find in Moonlight rainbow and Raining stars.

4 The End of the End, Though Immortality Has No End

268

In concluding this dissertation, I acknowledge that much of these contents will be transmuted in two or three years, as the Òphiere brand revisits and revises the A cena col vampiro series, turning it into the Saga della sedicesima notte. This brand, which “si dedica ora prevalentemente all’immaginario religioso e fantastico nella cultura pop, propone narrativa di genere fantastico, paranormale, romance, gotico, con predilezione per vampiri ed esseri della notte” (“La Casa Editrice - Ophiere”)—and it has giant shoes to fill. A unique opportunity presents itself to refine its publications in order to set the tone and the expectations for new authors to imitate or be inspired by works in this series proper but also those that have sprouted since the early 2000s. A standard is in formation, and, unlike the supernatural creatures that populate these fictional worlds, the undead romances under the umbrella of A cena col vampiro or La saga della sedicesima notte continue to transform and must transform in order to keep their audience and potentially increase their readership.

With regard to Porcaccia, un vampiro!, which will be excluded from the refurbished series by Òphiere, I believe that De Nicolo, like Ludovico and Andrea, has a wide-open future ahead of her, with fans in pursuit aching to know more. Indeed, I was elated to read this concluding sentence in De Nicolo’s 2017 interview: “Echi di sangue [that is, Porcaccia, un vampiro!] ha volutamente lasciato alcune domande in sospeso e alcuni dei lettori che lo hanno apprezzato mi chiedono da anni una seconda parte. Mi sembra giunto il momento di rispondere” (“Un’ intervista con Giusy De Nicolo”). I hope that she will publish this work soon and continue to publish new works of fiction, though she need not lean on Òphiere for help: her effortless skill in communicating the desires, shames, hopes, and dreams of youth will allow for her characters and their exploits to thrive within their fictional worlds and within our own world.

In the anglophone spaces that gave birth to these literary creatures of darkness, rather than showing signs of decline, the undead march toward a renaissance… or they are just normal and mainstream now. While the long-running television series The Vampire Diaries, aired on the CW network and based on Smith’s eponymous novels, ended its eight-season run in 2017 (Cohen) and its spin-off series called The Originals will end this year (in 2018), the NBC supernatural drama Midnight, Texas, based on Harris’s trilogy and featuring energy-sucking vampires (amongst other supernatural creatures), enters its second season in 2018 (Pedersen). Finally, as mentioned earlier, Rice’s Vampire Chronicles—to the delight and glee of legions of decades-old fans—will be presented to television audiences in the very near future. It is clear that the

269 fascination with the undead continues unabated; audiences and readers want more. Indeed, the Midnight, Texas books are recent publications and Rice continues to pay heed to her muse, Lestat de Lioncourt, by publishing stories featuring this devil-may-care vampire, with her most recent publication released in 2016 and entitled Prince Lestat and the Realms of Atlantis, with another forthcoming.

But these are the big names, and this is in the lands where vampires and their brethren can comfortably settle into their coffins and other suitable corners: what about the smaller, independent writers without Random House, in Rice’s case, to back them up? As we saw in this research, those with interests in the romantic undead will find each other, just like Bella, in the tiny town of Forks, found Edward; like Liz found Ethan in Forres; like Andrea found Ludovico in Bari; and like Mirta found Robin and then even Sara in the Subasio. Where supernatural forces are in play in fiction, passion and voracious appetites for fantasy and community fuel the hunger of readers of vampire romance in reality, connecting them with love, inspiration, and mysterious darkness. While the vampire thrives in the mainstream, those on the outskirts who have already found each other and begun to create new works of fiction—or recycled ones, in the realm of fan fiction—will welcome newcomers with open arms and sharp, loving fangs.

The contemporary Italian undead romance may be a niche subgenre in the Italian literary landscape for now, but the modern reader of “high-brow” literature should not judge it by its size: what it currently lacks in numbers, it makes up for in strength, intrigue, devotion, and passion. Given its burgeoning form, much room is left for innovation and creativity. The “Great, Dark Man in his Great, Dark House” has become the guy—or the girl—next door; exoticism and riches are no longer necessary ingredients to attract his paramour. In this era of undead-romance productions, everyone and every geographic location is fair game. With a welcoming attitude and a voracious appetite, I eagerly await whatever publications will arise; I am confident that, with the new international multimedia landscape inhabited by fans of this subgenre, the contemporary Italian undead romance will prove itself to be as immortal as its English predecessors. It should not be too hard; after all, as Sangiorgi and Venturi indicate (110), the recipe is simple: “AMORE E MORTE.”

Bibliography

Afribo, Andrea, and Emanuele Zinato. Modernità italiana: cultura, lingua e letteratura dagli anni settanta a oggi. Rome: Carocci, 2011. Alcini, Laura. Storia e teoria della traduzione letteraria in Italia. Perugia: Guerra, 1998. Alfieri, Gabriella. “La lingua di consumo.” La storia della lingua italiana - scritto e parlato. Vol. II. Ed. Luca Serianni and Pietro Trifone. Turin: Einaudi, 1993. Ambrogio, Renzo, and Giovanni Casalegno. Scrostati gaggio!: dizionario storico dei linguaggi giovanili. Turin: UTET Libreria, 2004. Ames, Melissa. Bitten by Twilight: Youth Culture, Media, and the Vampire Franchise. Ed. Melissa A. Click, Jennifer Stevens Aubrey, and Elizabeth Behm-Morawitz. New York: Peter Lang, 2010. Ammaniti, Niccolò, and Daniele Brolli. Gioventù cannibale. Turin: Einaudi, 1996. Anatol, Giselle Liza, ed. Bringing Light to Twilight: Perspectives on the Pop Culture Phenomenon. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. Antonelli, Giuseppe. L’italiano nella società della comunicazione. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2007. —. Lingua ipermedia: la parola di scrittore oggi in Italia. San Cesario di Lecce, Lecce: Manni, 2006. —. “Sintassi e stile nella narrativa italiana dagli anni Sessanta a oggi.” Storia generale della letteratura italiana. Vol. XII. Sperimentalismo e tradizione del nuovo. Ed. Nino Borsellino and Walter Pedullà. Milan: Federico Motta Editore, 1999. —, et al. Storia dell’italiano scritto. Vol. 2: prosa letteraria. Rome: Carocci, 2014. Azzolini, Luca. “Addio a Chiara Palazzolo.” Fantasy Magazine. Associazione Delos Books. 3 Aug. 2012. www.fantasymagazine.it/17418/addio-a-chiara-palazzolo. 15 Apr. 2018. Bailie, Helen T. “Blood Ties: The Vampire Lover in the Popular Romance.” The Journal of American Culture. 34.2 (2012): 141–148. Bane, Theresa. Encyclopedia of Demons in World Religions and Cultures. Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland & Co., 2012. 29–30. Barford, Vanessa. “Why Do Some People Refer to Themselves in the Third Person.” BBC News. BBC. 28 Aug. 2015. www.bbc.com/news/magazine-33943762. 15 Nov. 2016. Barracano, Vito. Vocabolario dialettale barese. Bari: M. Adda, 1981. 109. Barresi, Vittorio. [no title]. L’Avanti. 19 June 2005. 1 Sept. 2016. Web. Bertondini, Alfeo, and Bartolomeo Bellanova. Letteratura popolare, giovanile e fantastica (mito, utopia, fantascienza). Urbino: Quattroventi, 1989. Bethke, Bruce, and Karen Bethke. “From Castle Dracula to Merlotte’s Bar and Grill.” A Taste of True Blood: the Fangbanger’s Guide. Ed. Leah Wilson. Dallas: Smart Pop, 2010. 236. Bianchi, Ruggero. [no title]. La Stampa - Tuttolibri. 7 Apr. 2007. 1 Sept. 2016. Web.

270 271

Bill, Geoff. “Tensions in the World of Moon: Twin Peaks, Indigeneity and Territoriality.” Senses of Cinema 79 (July 2016). 22 Apr. 2018. sensesofcinema.com/2016/twin-peaks/twin- peaks-indigeneity-territoriality. Bono, Gianni. “L’UOMO RAGNO (5) L’UOMO RAGNO > SPIDER-MAN > AMAZING SPIDER-MAN.” 18 May 2017. www.guidafumettoitaliano.com/guida/testate/ testata/7458. 22 Apr. 2018. Bordoni, Carlo. Il romanzo di consumo: editoria e letteratura di massa. Naples: Liguori, 1993. Braccini, Tommaso. Prima di Dracula. Archeologia del vampiro. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2011. Brizzi, Enrico. Jack Frusciante è uscito dal gruppo. Milan: Baldini & Castoldi, 1996. Busse, Kristina, and Karen Hellekson, eds. Fan Fiction and Fan Communities in the Age of the Internet. Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland & Co., 2006. Buzi, Giovanni. Sesso, orrore e fantasia = Sex, Horror and Fantasy = Sexe, horreur et fantaisie. Bolsena, Viterbo: Massari, 2005. Călina, Nicoleta. “Sulla narrativa pulp italiana.” Journal of Teaching and Education 1.7 (2012): 157–164. Calmet, Augustin. Dissertazioni sopra le apparizioni de’ spiriti, e sopra i vampiri, o i redivivi d’Ungheria, di Moravia ec. Venice: Simone Occhi, 1756. Calogiuri, Annarita. I “libretti popolari” a stampa: storia, diffusione e caratteristiche di un “genere.” Galatina, Lecce: Congedo, 2012. The Cambridge Companion to Fantasy Literature. Ed. Edward James and Farah Mendlesohn. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2012. Capozzo, Désirée Paola. “Intervista a Chiara Palazzolo.” Elle. Hearst Magazines Italia SPA. 19 Apr. 2012. www.elle.com/it/magazine/libri/news/a833572/chiara-palazzolo-bosco-aus- gran-premio-lettrici-elle/. 28 Oct. 2015. Capuana, Luigi. Un vampiro. Rome: E. Voghera, 1907. Casadei, Alberto. Stile e tradizione nel romanzo italiano contemporaneo. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2007. Castellani Pollidori, Ornella. La lingua di plastica: vezzi e malvezzi dell’italiano contemporaneo. Naples: Morano, 1995. Ceronetti, Guido. In un amore felice: romanzo in lingua italiana. Milan: Adelphi, 2011. Cerrato, Mariantonia. L’alzata d’ingegno: analisi sociolinguistica dei romanzi di Andrea Camilleri. Florence: F. Cesati, 2012. Chimera, Manuela. “Morta Chiara Palazzolo: Addio alla scrittrice horror di Non mi uccidere.” 6 Aug. 2012. www.cultura.nanopress.it/articolo/morta-chiara-palazzolo-addio-alla- scrittrice-horror-di-non-mi-uccidere/9803. 27 Mar. 2015. Ciampaglia, Nadia. “La Cieca di Sorrento e la scrittura narrativa di Francesco Mastriani: primi sondaggi linguistici.” Linguistica e Letteratura XXXVII.1–2 (2012): 183–267. Clements, Susannah. The Vampire Defanged: How the Embodiment of Evil Became a Romantic Hero. Grand Rapids: Brazos Press, 2011.

272

Cohen, Jess. “Ian Somerhalder and Paul Wesley’s Vampire Diaries Reunion Photo Sparks Social Media Frenzy.” ENews. 11 Feb. 2018. www.eonline.com/news/913116/ian-somerhalder- and-paul-wesley-s-vampire-diaries-reunion-photo-sparks-social-media-frenzy. 11 Mar. 2018. “Collana A cena col vampiro.” Preface. Moonlight rainbow. By Violet Folgorata. A cena col vampiro. Parma: Mamma Editori, 2009. 3. Cooke, Sam. “Another Saturday Night.” Ain’t That Good News. 1 Mar. 1964. ABKCO Music & Records, Inc., 2015. Cortelazzo, Michele A. “Il parlato giovanile.” Storia della lingua italiana. Ed. Pietro Trifone and Luca Serianni. Vol. 2. Turin: Einaudi, 1994. 291–317. —. “La lingua italiana di fine Millennio.” Belfagor 50 (1995): 103. Corti, Claudia. Sul discorso fantastico: la narrazione nel romanzo gotico. Pisa: ETS Editrice, 1989. Coveri, Lorenzo. “Forever Young. Lingua dei giovani, linguaggi giovanili.” I linguaggi giovanili. Ed. Stefania Stefanelli and A. Valeria Saura. Florence: Accademia della Crusca, 2011. 15–39. Crawford, Joseph. The Twilight of the Gothic?: Vampire Fiction and the Rise of the Paranormal Romance. Cardiff: U of Wales P, 2014. “Cristiano.” Alfabeto pirandelliano. Ed. Leonardo Sciascia. Milan: Adelphi, 1989. Culicchia, Giuseppe. Brucia la città. Turin: Einaudi, 2009. 11. D’Annunzio, Gabriele. “A Matilde Serao.” Giovanni Episcopo. 1892. Ed. Gianni Oliva. Rome: Newton, 1995. 6. D’Ascoli, Francesco. Nuovo vocabolario dialettale napoletano: repertorio completo delle voci, approfondimenti etimologici, fonti letterarie, locuzioni tipiche. Naples: A. Gallina, 1993. 464. Dagrada, Elena. “Soggettiva.” Enciclopedia del cinema. Treccani. 2004. www.treccani.it/ enciclopedia/soggettiva_(Enciclopedia-del-Cinema). 28 Nov. 2015. Damonte, Federico, and Jacopo Garzonio, eds. Studi sui dialetti della Puglia. Quaderni di lavoro dell’Atlante Sintattico d’Italia. Padua: Unipress, 2007. Dardano, Maurizio. “Il linguaggio dei giornali quotidiani italiani.” Ulisse 80 (1975): 36–45. Day, Sara K. “Pure Passion: The Twilight Saga, ‘Abstinence Porn,’ and Adolescent Women’s Fan Fiction.” Children’s Literature Association Quarterly 39.1 (2014): 28–48. De Carlo, Andrea. Tecniche di seduzione. Milan: Einaudi, 1993. 47. Deffenbacher, Kristina, and Mikayla Zagoria-Moffet. “Textual Vampirism in the Twilight Saga: Drawing Feminist Life from Jane Eyre and Teen Fantasy Fiction.” Bringing Light to Twilight: Perspectives on the Pop Culture Phenomenon. Ed. Giselle Liza Anatol. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. 31–42. De Nicolo, Giusy. Porcaccia, un vampiro! A cena col vampiro. Parma: Mamma Editori, 2010. Dinale, Claudia. Giovani allo scrittoio. Padua: Esedra, 2001.

273

“DOCkS della Bloody Roses Secret Society.” 17 Dec. 2016. docks.forumcommunity.net. 22 Apr. 2018. Dooley, Michaela. Raining stars. A cena col vampiro. Parma: Mamma Editori, 2010. “DOVERE in ‘la grammatica italiana’.” Treccani. 2012. www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/ dovere_%28La-grammatica-italiana%29/. 27 Aug. 2017. Duffett, Mark. Understanding Fandom: An Introduction to the Study of Media Fan Culture. New York: Bloomsbury, 2013. Elderkin, Beth. “Bryan Fuller Lestat-us Update: He’s Working on Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles Show.” io9. 11 Jan. 2018. io9.gizmodo.com/bryan-fuller-lestat-us-update-hes- doing-anne-rices-vam-1821985553. 20 Jan. 2018. Engler, Sandra. A Career’s Wonderful, but Love Is More Wonderful Still: Femininity and Masculinity in the Fiction of Mills & Boon. Tübingen: Francke, 2005. Erzen, Tanya. Fanpire: The Twilight Saga and the Women Who Love It. Boston: Beacon Press, 2012. Estes, Andrew. “Cannibalism and Other Transgressions of the Human in The Road.” European Journal of American Studies [Online] 12.3 (Spec. Issue: Cormac McCarthy Between Worlds [Dec. 2017]). journals.openedition.org/ejas/12368. 5 Mar. 2018. Ferrara, Pia. “Dal 24 Settembre al via True Blood su MTV.” Fantasy Magazine. 20 Sept. 2010. www.fantasymagazine.it/13058/dal-24-settembre-al-via-true-blood-su-mtv. 6 Mar. 2018. Ferrari, Chiara Francesca. Since When Is Fran Drescher Jewish? Austin: U of Texas P, 2010. Ferraro, Guido, and Isabella Brugo. Comunque umani: dietro le figure di mostri, alieni, orchi e vampiri. Rome: Meltemi Editore, 2008. Ferretti, Gian C. Il Best Seller all’italiana: fortune e formule del romanzo “di qualità.” Rome: Laterza, 1983. Fisher, Theresa. “The Psychological Case for Talking in the Third Person.” Mic. Mic Network Inc. 25 Feb. 2015. www.mic.com/articles/111300/the-psychological-case-for-talking-in- the-third-person#.tWAqlmJdT. 15 Nov. 2016. Folgorata, Violet. Moonlight rainbow. A cena col vampiro. Parma: Mamma Editori, 2009. Frati, Lorenzo. “La Guerra delle stelle: Il doppiaggio e l’adattamento italiano di Star Wars del ’77.” 24 Feb. 2016. web.archive.org/web/20160224050435/http://www.guerrestellari.net/ athenaeum/stori_menucronicreativa_dopp.html. 22 Apr. 2018. Garavelli, Bice Mortara. Prontuario di punteggiatura. 5th ed. Bari: GLF Editori Laterza, 2004. Gheno, Vera. “Socializzare in rete.” I linguaggi giovanili. Ed. Stefania Stefanelli and A. Valeria Saura. Florence: Accademia della Crusca, 2011. 41–112. —. Social-linguistica: italiano e italiani dei social network. Florence: Franco Cesati, 2017. Giovanardi, Claudio, and Riccardo Gualdo. Inglese-Italiano 1 a 1. Tradurre o non tradurre. Lecce: Manni, 2008.

274

Ginzburg, Carlo. The Night Battles: Witchcraft and Agrarian Cults in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries. Trans. John and Anne Tedeschi. Melbourne: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1983. IX. Giovannini, Fabio. Il libro dei vampiri: dal mito di Dracula alla presenza quotidiana. Bari: Dedalo, 1985. Grossmann, Maria, Franz Rainer, and Pier M. Bertinetto. La formazione delle parole in italiano. Tübingen: M. Niemeyer, 2004. 606. Guns N’ Roses. “Don’t Cry.” Use Your Illusion I. Geffen, 1991. Hage, Erik. Cormac McCarthy: A Literary Companion. Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland & Company, 2010. 156. Hallab, Mary Y. Vampire God: The Allure of the Undead in Western Culture. Albany: State U of New York P, 2009. Harper, Douglas. “Ophelia.” Online Etymology Dictionary. 2016. www.etymonline.com/word/ Ophelia. 27 May 2016. Harris, Charlaine. Dead Until Dark. New York: Ace Books, 2001. —. Finché non cala il buio. 1st ed. Trans. A. Guarnieri. Rome: Fazi, 2009. HIM. “When Love and Death Embrace.” Greatest Love Songs Vol. 666. BMG, 1997. Hollinger, Veronica. “The Vampire and the Alien: Variations on the Outsider.” Science Fiction Studies 16.2 (1989): 145–160. Ide, Wendy. “The Vampire Bites Back.” The Times: 9. 14 Aug. 2008. ProQuest. 19 Apr. 2016. “Inguacchio.” Treccani.it. www.treccani.it/vocabolario/inguacchio/. 28 Sept. 2017. Jameson, Fredric. The Political Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act. London: Routledge, 2002. 115. Jenkins, Henry. Fans, Bloggers, and Gamers: Exploring Participatory Culture. New York: New York UP, 2006. “Kotetsu Zieg (TV).” 1998–2017. www.animenewsnetwork.cc/encyclopedia/ anime.php?id=1462. 19 Aug. 2017. Kramar, Margaret. “The Wolf in the Woods: Representations of ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ in Twilight.” Bringing Light to Twilight: Perspectives on the Pop Culture Phenomenon. Ed. Giselle Liza Anatol. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. 15–29. “La Casa Editrice - Ophiere.” Òphiere. www.ophiere.it/index.php/chi-siamo. 6 July 2017. “La Saga della Sedicesima Notte.” Òphiere. www.ophiere.it/index.php/catalogo/ romanzipop-4/100-saga-della-sedicesima-notte. 6 July 2017. Laviosa, Sara. Linking Wor(l)ds: Lexis and Grammar for Translation. Naples: Liguori, 2005. Le Fanu, Joseph Sheridan. Carmilla. Ed. Kathleen Costello-Sullivan. 1st ed. Syracuse, New York: Syracuse UP, 2013. Leggeri, Andrea. “VENDICATORI (4) AVENGERS > I NUOVISSIMI AVENGERS.”13 May 2017. www.guidafumettoitaliano.com/guida/testate/testata/8324. 22 Apr. 2018.

275

Le Guin, Ursula K., and Susan Wood. The Language of the Night: Essays on Fantasy and Science Fiction. London: Women’s Press, 1989. “Libri & vampiri, tanti consigli di lettura.” Illibraio.it. Mauri Spagnol S.p.A. www.illibraio.it/ proposte/libri-vampiri. 22 Sept. 2015. Lipperini, Loredana. “Addio a Chiara Palazzolo signora dell’horror italiano.” La Repubblica. Gruppo Editoriale L’Espresso. 7 Aug. 2012. www.ricerca.repubblica.it/repubblica/ archivio/repubblica/2012/08/07/addio-chiara-palazzolo-signora-dell-horror-italiano.html. 21 Apr. 2016. Lombardi, Giancarlo. “Tutti pazzi per amore: Gen X, Italian Style.” Generation X Goes Global: Mapping a Youth Culture in Motion. Ed. Christine Henseler. New York: Routledge, 2012. 233–247. Lombardo Radice, Marco, and Lidia Ravera. Porci con le ali. Rome: Savelli, 1976. Lucamante, Stefania. Italian Pulp Fiction: The New Narrative of the Giovani Cannibali Writers. Madison, New Jersey: Fairleigh Dickinson UP, 2001. “LUMINOR SUBMERSIBLE 1950 3 DAYS AUTOMATIC TITANIO - 47MM.” Officine Panerai. 2017. www.panerai.com/it/collezioni/collezione-orologi/luminor-1950/luminor- submersible-1950-3-days-automatic-titanio---47mm_pam01305.html. 13 July 2017. Lupi, Gordiano. “Letteratura: Franco Mistrali: Il vampiro – Una storia vera, Keres Edizioni.” 22 Mar. 2011. www.bartolomeodimonaco.it/online/letteratura-3/. 10 Mar. 2015. M@D. “Welcome.” Angolotesti.it. 2015. www.angolotesti.it/dance/M/ testo_canzone_m@d_welcome_in_the_city_in_ the_jungle_83.html. 26 Aug. 2015. Mainardi, Danilo. Un innocente vampiro. Milan: A. Mondadori, 1993. Malato, Enrico. Storia della letteratura italiana. Rome: Salerno, 1995. “Mamma Editori : immaginario metafisico - Mamma Editori.” Mamma Editori. www.mammaeditori.it. 6 July 2017. Mancarella, Fr. Giovan Battista, Paola Parlangèli, and Pietro Salamac. Dizionario dialettale del Salento. Lecce: Edizioni Grifo, 2011. Mancinella, Marisa. Grimonio di una strega vampira. (Online): Booksprint, 2011. Mandarino. “porcaccia.” Wordreference.com. 27 July 2017. forum.wordreference.com/threads/ porcaccia.3348525. Forum post. —. “Porcaccia, un vampiro.” Wordreference.com. 27 July 2017 and 4 Aug. 2017. Private messages. Mandelli, Magda. “Discorso diretto.” Enciclopedia dell’italiano. Treccani, 2010. Web. 27 May 2016. www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/discorso-diretto_(Enciclopedia-dell’Italiano). Manzoni, Gian R. Peso vero sclero: dizionario del linguaggio giovanile di fine millennio. Milan: Saggiatore, 1997. Marcato, Carla. “In para totale… una cosa da panico…: sulla lingua dei giovani in Italia.” Italica 74.4 (1997): 560–575.

276

Marcus, Jana. In the Shadow of the Vampire: Reflections on the World of Anne Rice. New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1997. Marrama, Daniele Oberto. “Il dottor nero.” Storie di vampiri. Ed. Gianni Pilo and Sebastiano Fusco. Rome: Newton Compton, 2009. 297–306. McCarthy, Cormac. The Road. 1st ed. New York: Knopf, 2006. McDonnell, Jenny. “Twin Peaks.” The Irish Journal of Gothic and Horror Studies 3 (Nov. 2007): 132–134. Meyer, Stephenie. Twilight. New York: Little, Brown and Co., 2005. —. New Moon. New York: Little, Brown and Co., 2006. Mistrali, Franco. Il vampiro. Storia vera. 1869. Ed. Antonio Daniele. Salerno: Keres Edizioni, 2011. “Mistrali, Franco.” Dizionario biografico degli italiani. Vol. 75. Ed. Fiorenza Tarozzi. (Online): Treccani, 2011. www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/franco-mistrali_%28Dizionario- Biografico%29/. 22 Apr. 2018. Moccia, Federico. Ho voglia di te. Milan: Feltrinelli, 2006. Montanari, Monica. “La revisione dei libri della collana A cena col vampiro.” Received by Christina Vani. 11 Apr. 2018. E-mail. Morgana, Silvia. “La lingua del fumetto.” La lingua italiana e i mass media. Ed. Ilaria Bonomi, Andrea Masini, and Silvia Morgana. Rome: Carocci, 2003. 165–198. Nash, Ilana. American Sweethearts: Teenage Girls in Twentieth-Century Popular Culture. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 2006. Neiger, Ada, and Guido Almansi. Il vampiro, Don Giovanni e altri seduttori. Bari: Dedalo, 1998. “Non mi uccidere.” Edizioni Piemme. Edizioni Piemme. [n. d.] Web. 21 Apr. 2016. . O’Dell, Cary. “Bewitched: Rethinking a Sixties Sitcom Classic.” Television Quarterly 36.1 (Oct. 2005): 65–68. Palazzolo, Chiara. Non mi uccidere. Casale Monferrato, Alessandria: Piemme, 2005. —. Strappami il cuore. Casale Monferrato, Alessandria: Piemme, 2006. —. Ti porterò nel sangue. Casale Monferrato, Alessandria: Piemme, 2007. Parks, Tim. Translating Style: A Literary Approach to Translation, a Translation Approach to Literature. Kinderhook, New York: St. Jerome Pub, 2007. Pedersen, Erik. “NBC Sets Summer Premieres: ‘Marlon,’ ‘Midnight, Texas,’ ‘Carmichael Show,’ Reality & More.” Deadline. 17 Mar. 2017. deadline.com/2017/03/nbc-summer- schedule-americas-got-talent-marlon-carmichael-show-world-of-dance-1202045777/. 11 Mar. 2018. Pelaia, Ariela. “Jewish Mythology on HBO’s True Blood: Was Lilith a Vampire?” ThoughtCo. 15 June 2017. www.thoughtco.com/jewish-mythology-on-hbos-true-blood-3972113. 11 July 2017.

277

“Perchè si dice ‘salutame a’ soreta’?” Yahoo Answers. 5 Feb. 2009. it.answers.yahoo.com/ question/index?qid=20090502042213AAh8ZST. 7 Aug. 2017. Forum post. Peters, Mark. “Holy prefix, Batman! A look at Bat-words in honor of Batman’s 75th anniversary.” The Week. 3 Apr. 2014. theweek.com/articles/448477/holy-prefix-batman- look-batwords-honor-batmans-75th-anniversary. 15 Apr. 2016. Petronio, Giuseppe. Letteratura di massa, letteratura di consumo: guida storica e critica. Rome: Laterza, 1979. Petronio, Monica. Dai vampiri al Conte Dracula. Un viaggio nell’immaginario occidentale. Palermo: Sellerio Editore, 1999. Piccinini, Elissa. [no title]. Horrormania. June 2007. 1 Sept. 2016. Web. Prudom, Laura. “The Walking Dead renewed for season 9, Angela Kang promoted to showrunner.” IGN. 13 Jan. 2018. ca.ign.com/articles/2018/01/13/the-walking-dead- renewed-for-season-9-angela-kang-promoted-to-showrunner. 20 Jan. 2018. Raimondi, Luca, ed. I signori della notte: Storie di vampiri italiani. Milan: Morellini Editore, 2018. Ricci, Laura. “Paraletteratura.” Storia dell’italiano scritto. II. Prosa letteraria. Ed. Giuseppe Antonelli, Matteo Motolese, and Lorenzo Tomasin. Rome: Carocci, 2014. 283–326. Rice, Anne. Interview with the Vampire. New York: Knopf, 1976. Rizzo, Laura. “Bloody Beri: ovvero come macchiare di sangue una città e (non) passare inosservati.” Puglia Libre. 18 Oct. 2010. www.puglialibre.it/2010/10/porcaccia-un- vampiro-di-giusy-de-nicolo/. 5 Oct. 2017. Roda, Vittorio. I fantasmi della ragione: fantastico, scienza e fantascienza nella letteratura italiana fra Otto e Novecento. 1st Italian ed. Naples: Liguori, 1996. Rodari, Gianni. Grammatica della fantasia. Introduzione all’arte di inventare storie. Turin: Einaudi, 1973. Salibra, Luciana. Riscrivere: cinema e letteratura di consumo (Rohmer, Moravia, Olivieri, Tomasi di Lampedusa). Florence: Cesati, 2008. “Salutame a’ soreta.” Wordreference.com. 30 Mar. 2015. forum.wordreference.com/threads/ salutame-a-soreta.2992590/. 7 Aug. 2017. Forum post. “Samsara.” Oxford Canadian Dictionary. Ed. Katherine Barber. 1998. Sangiorgi, Marco, and Susanna Venturi. Pare… letteratura: neo-italiano, blog, paraletteratura e altre forme selvagge di comunicazione. Ravenna: Longo, 2008. Santamaria, Simonetta. Vampiri. Da Dracula a Twilight. Rome: Gremese Editore, 2009. Sclavi, Tiziano. Tutti i misteri di Dylan Dog. Milan: A. Mondadori, 1995. Seger, Monica. Landscapes in Between: Environmental Change in Modern Italian Literature and Film. Toronto, Buffalo, London: U of Toronto P, 2015. Serianni, Luca, and Pietro Trifone. Storia della lingua italiana. Vol. 2: scritto e parlato. Turin: Einaudi, 1993.

278

Setti, Raffaella. “L’articolo prima di un nome.” Accademia della Crusca. 4 Apr. 2003. www.accademiadellacrusca.it/en/italian-language/language-consulting/questions- answers/larticolo-prima-prenome. 28 Nov. 2015. Siegel, Jeff. “Koines and Koineization.” Language in Society 14.3 (Sept. 1985): 357–378. Smith, L. J. The Vampire Diaries: The Awakening. New York: Harper Collins, 2010. Sobrero, Alberto A., and Immacolata Tempesta. Puglia. Rome and Bari: Laterza, 2002. Somigli, Luca. Meeting. University of Toronto, Carr Hall, Toronto. 26 Mar. 2018. Sotiri, Marinela. “Possessivi e nomi di parentela.” Studi sui dialetti della Puglia. Ed. Federico Damonte and Jacopo Garzonio. Quaderni di lavoro dell’Atlante Sintattico d’Italia n. 7. Padua: Unipress, 2007. 99–108. Stefanelli, Stefania. “Scritture narrative contemporanee.” I linguaggi giovanili. Ed. Stefania Stefanelli and A. Valeria Saura. Florence: Accademia della Crusca, 2011. 113–139. Stephey, M.J. “Gen-X: The Ignored Generation?” TIME. 16 Apr. 2008. content.time.com/time/ arts/article/0,8599,1731528,00.html. 29 Apr. 2018. Stevens, Cat. “Another Saturday Night.” 1974. The Very Best of Cat Stevens. Universal Island Records Ltd., 2000. —. “Peace Train.” Teaser and the Firecat. 1 Oct. 1971. Universal Island Records Ltd., 2008. —. “Wild World.” Tea for the Tillerman. 23 Nov. 1970. Island Records, 1970. “Storia.” Luxottica Group. 2017. www.persol.com/italy/storia. 13 July 2017. Storie di vampiri. Da Polidori a Stoker, da Maupassant a Conan Doyle, oltre settanta autori ci accompagnano alla scoperta di una tra le figure più celebri della letteratura dell’orrore. Ed. Gianni Pilo and Sebastiano Fusco. Rome: Newton Compton, 2009. “Superego.” Oxford Canadian Dictionary. Ed. Katherine Barber. 1998. “Super Saiyan.” Dragon Ball Wiki. Wikia. dragonball.wikia.com/wiki/Super_Saiyan. 3 Aug. 2017. Taffon, Giorgio. “Lidia Ravera.” Encyclopedia of Italian Literary Studies. Ed. Gaetana Marrone. New York: Routledge, 2007. 1550–1551. Tardiola, Giuseppe. Il vampiro nella letteratura italiana. Anzio, Rome: De Rubeis, 1991. Taylor, Christopher. Aspects of Language and Translation: Contrastive Approaches for Italian/English Translators. Udine: Campanotto, 1990. Terminelli, Anselmo. “Re: Chiara.” Received by Christina Vani. 24 June 2017. E-mail. —. Tanto ormai… Ricovero e morte di Chiara Palazzolo. [Online]: A. Terminelli, 2015. Testa, Enrico. Lo stile semplice: discorso e romanzo. Turin: Einaudi, 1997. Tomasi, Silvia. Il bello della bestia: saggi sulle esitazioni del fantastico. Ancona: Transeuropa, 1998. Tonani, Elisa. Punteggiatura d’autore: interpunzione e strategie tipografiche nella letteratura italiana dal Novecento a oggi. Florence: F. Cesati, 2012.

279

Tonon, Dino. “La notizia” Manuale dell’italiano professionale. Teoria e didattica. Ed. Francesco Bruni and Tommaso Raso. Bologna: Zanichelli, 2002. 92–99. Trask, Larry. “Abbreviations : Capital Letters and Abbreviations.” 1997. www.sussex.ac.uk/ informatics/punctuation/capsandabbr/abbr. 17 July 2017. Trentaduesima. “Essere un trapano.” Wordreference.com. 3 Aug. 2017. forum.wordreference.com/threads/essere-un-trapano.2086688. Forum post. Trifoni, J. [no title]. Meridiani. Apr. 2009. Web. Trigila, Maria. Letteratura al femminile: dalle origini ai nostri giorni in Italia. Caltanissetta: Salvatore Sciascia Editore, 2004. Twilight [film]. Dir. Catherine Hardwicke. Perf. Kristen Stewart, Robert Pattinson, Taylor Lautner. Summit Entertainment, 2008. “Un’ intervista con Giusy De Nicolo.” Liberi di scrivere. 24 Mar. 2017. liberidiscrivere.com/ 2017/03/24/un-intervista-con-giusy-de-nicolo/. 29 Apr. 2018. “Vader o Fener? Ecco il responso.” Fantascienza.com. Associazione Delos Books. 5 Nov. 2004. www.fantascienza.com/5230/vader-o-fener-ecco-il-responso. 22 Apr. 2018. Valero Garcés, Carmen. “Onomatopoeia and Unarticulated Language in the Translation and Production of Comic Books.” Comics in Translation. Ed. Federico Zanettin. Manchester, United Kingdom: St. Jerome Pub, 2008. 237–250. Vani, Christina. “‘Andrei nel fuoco, per lui’: An Exploration of Two Contemporary Italian and American Young-Adult Undead-Romance Series.” CUNY. The Graduate Center, New York City, New York. 24 Apr. 2015. Panel Presentation. Vassalli, Sebastiano. La chimera. Turin: Rizzoli, 1990. 21. Verrengia, Enzo. “Muore Chiara Palazzolo, l’Horror in Stile Italiano.” L’Unità 6 Aug. 2012. cerca.unita.it/ARCHIVE/xml/2440000/2436461.xml?key=Enzo+Verrengia&first=71&or derby=0&f=fir. 7 Apr. 2015. Violapais. “Essere un trapano.” Wordreference.com. 3 Aug. 2017. forum.wordreference.com/ threads/essere-un-trapano.2086688. Forum post. “Welcome (in the City in the Jungle).” M@D. Angolotesti.it. 2015. www.angolotesti.it/dance/ M/testo_canzone_m@d_welcome_in_the_city_in_the_jungle_83.html. 26 Aug. 2015. Willard, Lara. “7 Tips for Writing Realistic Dialogue.” Better Novel Project. 15 July 2014. www.betternovelproject.com/blog/dialogue. 5 Aug. 2017. Wright, Laura. “Post-Vampire: The Politics of Drinking Humans and Animals in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Twilight, and True Blood.” Journal of the Fantastic in the Arts 25.2–3 (2014): 347–365. Zambenedetti, Alberto. Meeting. University of Toronto, Carr Hall, Toronto. 26 Mar. 2018. Zanettin, Federico. Comics in Translation. Manchester, United Kingdom: St. Jerome Pub, 2008. Zingarelli, Nicola. Vocabolario della lingua italiana di Nicola Zingarelli. 12th ed. Bologna: Zanichelli Editore, 2007.