Issue 202, Fall 2012
Roberto Calasso is a literary institution of one. He has directed Adelphi, Italy’s most prestigious publishing house, for forty years, while publishing twelve books of his own, including an international best seller on Greek myth titled The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony. In a country where intellectuals like to complain, perhaps more than elsewhere, that literary culture has fallen by the wayside, Calasso has come to stand for a lost ideal: a writer on esoteric topics, a book collector, a translator of Nietzsche and Karl Kraus, and an editor who oversees the publication of some ninety books a year, in every domain from the scientific to the poetic, with a fiction list that ranges from Nabokov and Borges to Kundera and Bolaño.
Last January, despite a transportation strike and an early-morning earthquake, I found Calasso sitting behind his desk at the Adelphi headquarters in Milan, studiously ignoring an old telephone, which he lets ring a dozen times before he picks up. On the first afternoon, we drew a conversation chart for the days to come. The next morning, we began the interview proper at his home, a sober and elegant apartment in the city’s historical center that houses a part of his famous book collection, including first editions of Spinoza and Giordano Bruno and the 922 issues of Kraus’s magazine, Die Fackel.
Calasso expresses himself, in both Italian and English, with extreme precision and touching generosity. Although he has a reputation for being remote and forbiddingly intelligent, he comes off as approachable, affable, even funny. He reads novels and essays quickly for work and slowly for pleasure, takes very tidy notes on nearly everything (at any given time he may extract a notebook from his jacket and jot something down), and his prodigious memory in matters great and small is almost discernible in the swift movement of his eyes.
There was some discussion over how to classify this interview, as Calasso’s productions do not fall easily into traditional categories. His one novel, L’impuro folle (The Impure Fool, 1974), is also a work of erudition, a haunting vision of the famous Schreber case, on which Freud based his theory of paranoia. In 1983 came the still less classifiable The Ruin of Kasch. In a glowing review of the book, Italo Calvino wrote that it dealt with two things: first, Talleyrand; second, everything else. Notably, Calasso’s “everything else” covered the structures of storytelling and the origins of the modern world. In 1988, he published The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony, which draws a pluralistic and polyphonic vision of Greek myth and is still his most popular work. Gore Vidal said of The Marriage, “I have no idea whether or not Roberto Calasso is a genius but I do know that The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony is a perfect work like no other.” Eight years later, Calasso published Ka, a personal summation of Indian myth.
His next three books were, ostensibly, on modern subjects: Franz Kafka (K.), Tiepolo (Tiepolo Pink), and, most recently, La folie Baudelaire, a meditation on mid-nineteenth-century Paris and modernity. In 2010, he published L’ardore, about Vedic civilization and sacrifice. He has also published a series of essays, The Forty-Nine Steps; Literature and the Gods, his Oxford Weidenfeld Lectures on pagan imagery; and La follia che viene dalle Ninfe (The Madness That Comes from the Nymphs), a collection of variegated essays ranging from nymphets to Rita Hayworth.
Both critics and admirers have called Calasso a “neo-gnostic,” a master of secret knowledge. By his own admission, he has a fascination with the “unknown” and our dealings with it, or lack thereof. We may no longer eye the world in mystical or mythical terms, but, Calasso writes in The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony, “the truth is it is the myths that are still out there waiting to wake us and be seen by us, like a tree waiting to greet our newly opened eyes.”
INTERVIEWER
Did you want to become a writer when you were young?
CALASSO
I started writing my memoirs when I was twelve. The first line was about the sound of a tramway, which changed with the onset of summer. It read, “L’estate la sentivo arrivare dal viale.” Viale means “avenue.” We were living on this wide avenue. Now it’s a highway of sorts, but back then there were marvelous linden trees, and through the middle ran the tramway. At night I heard it race toward us—number 19. The book covered my years between four and seven.
INTERVIEWER
You were born in Florence.
CALASSO
Yes, in 1941, in the middle of the war. Probably the most desperate year in the history of Europe, with the Nazis in Paris still thinking they were going to win.
INTERVIEWER
What did your father do during the war?
CALASSO
My father was a professor of the history of law at the University of Florence, and he was known as an anti-Fascist. In 1944, the philosopher Giovanni Gentile was assassinated. Gentile was an important philosopher, but unfortunately he was very much involved with the Fascists. He was killed in front of a villa near Florence by two partisans. In reprisal, three professors on a special list of anti-Fascists wanted by the government were arrested and condemned to death immediately afterward. One of them was my father. Florence was under the grip of one of the most ferocious chiefs of the Fascist militias—Carità was his name. As it happened, my family, especially the family on my mother’s side, was connected with Gentile. They were close friends. So two sons of Gentile immediately went to the police to talk them out of killing these three men. It was an act of great generosity.
INTERVIEWER
Did it work?
CALASSO
The Fascists warned that if anything else happened at the hands of the partisans, the three prisoners would be shot. They remained in jail for a month, every night thinking they might be executed the next day. In the end they were freed thanks to the consul of Germany, an exceptional man named Gerhard Wolf. He knew one my father’s fellow prisoners well—Bianchi Bandinelli, an eminent scholar of Greek and Roman art. And Wolf remembered that when Hitler visited Florence in 1938, he saw the Uffizi. The man who was chosen to accompany him was Bianchi Bandinelli. Hitler was enthusiastic about this guide and remembered him. So Wolf told Berlin that Bandinelli was going to be killed, and that was decisive. The Fascists liberated all three men.
Following their liberation, my father of course had to disappear, and so did we. The danger was that we might be taken hostage. For a while we were hidden by a very brave woman in her attic on Via Cavour, right in the center of Florence. My haziest, very first recollections are from around that time. I was three. I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor, and I remember trying to climb up to a window because we heard people shooting in the street. But my first precise memories are from a villa in San Domenico Fiesole, near Florence, where we stayed later on in the war. I remember where the limonaia was, and the wisteria on a crumbling balcony.
INTERVIEWER
After the war, you went back to Florence?
CALASSO
Yes, we stayed in Florence until 1954. Then we moved to Rome because my father took a position teaching there and later became dean of his faculty. My mother had written her Ph.D. on one of Plutarch’s Moralia and later worked on the translations of Pindar by Hölderlin. But although she was very talented in her field, she preferred to care for her three children.
INTERVIEWER
What are some of your fondest memories of Florence?
CALASSO
My best friend was the son of a doctor who had a great passion for Wagner. We were able to go to the Teatro Comunale every Sunday because he had three orchestra places, and he would take us boys. It was the time when all the great ones were conducting. I remember at my first concert the conductor was Hermann Scherchen, a legend. Later on, Bruno Walter, Mitropoulos, Fricsay, so many others. The great pianists as well, Benedetti Michelangeli, Backhaus, Fischer, Kempff, Gieseking.
INTERVIEWER
Did you have access to books?
CALASSO
The house was lined with books, mainly the primary sources on which my father used to work—texts in the theory of law published between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries. Rather impressive folios, many of them, and mostly in Latin. Just to see them around, with their obscure titles and authors, was far more useful to me than reading so many other books later on. On the weekends I used to go to my grandfather’s house. He was a professor of philosophy at the University of Florence. He was also the founder of a publishing house, La Nuova Italia, which still exists. On its backlist you can find a lot of Hegel and some of the greatest classical scholars.
INTERVIEWER
Did you enjoy living in Rome?
CALASSO
I loved Rome. I had a sort of mania for the cinema at that time—I went once or twice a day instead of doing schoolwork. It was exciting going to these big, dark, smoky halls in the city center. I had a real passion for Marlon Brando. He fascinated me as an actor and a sort of mutant—when he first appeared he looked like a new anthropological specimen. The films, too, I loved. I knew all of them by heart. It sounds comical today, but I saw On the Waterfront at least seven times. I found all Hollywood genres alluring in their own ways.
Around this time, I also wrote a screenplay based on Lord Jim, which I loved.
INTERVIEWER
What are your memories of high school?
CALASSO
I had a superb professor of Greek and Latin. A terribly lively, intelligent, quick woman named Maria Di Porto.
INTERVIEWER
Were you already interested in ancient Greece?
CALASSO
Among many other things. When I was twelve I met the man who was to become the great friend of my life. Alas, he died some time ago. He was the most remarkable reader I have ever met—his judgment on books was perfect. His name was Enzo Turolla. The Folie Baudelaire is inscribed to him. He was a marvelous man, and I met him, of all places, on a soccer field in the Dolomites during a vacation. He was ten years older than me, but we hit it off right away. He heard me say that what Croce wrote on Baudelaire was not so great, and we started talking and never stopped.
INTERVIEWER
Was he a professional intellectual?
CALASSO
A bit in the way of those Oxford dons who publish half a dozen articles in their lives. He taught for years at the University of Padua. His family had a very charming house in Venice, and I used to go there often for long stays. We would go around talking until four in the morning. When we met, he was plunged into Proust.
INTERVIEWER
A passion he transferred to you?
CALASSO
Yes, the Recherche had just been published in three volumes in the French Pléiade, so I asked for it as a Christmas gift. Proust became a great love, and he is still one of the writers I return to often.
INTERVIEWER
What was your Ph.D. about?
CALASSO
The theory of hieroglyphs in Sir Thomas Browne—to my mind, the best English prose of the seventeenth century. Borges loved him—he was one of his favorite authors. And he was also a favorite of my supervisor, Mario Praz.
INTERVIEWER
What attracted you to Browne to begin with?
CALASSO
Everything. He was a great writer. A sort of lesser English parallel to Montaigne, but esoteric. Hieroglyphs—the idea of a language made up of images—are connected with all my work. For a long time, this language was considered more important than the language of words. Certain writers or scholars, like Thomas Browne, believed that they were a secret language. That was the beginning of many things for me. The doctorate was also a good pretext for going to London. Mornings in the British Library and afternoons in the Warburg Institute. Or the opposite. An ideal life. It was the sixties, the beginning of the Beatles and so much else. Naturally I postponed the end of my dissertation as long as I could. In the end I wrote it in less than a month, smoking hashish every night. I had some American friends in Rome back then, experts in all sorts of drugs. Rather astonishing when I think about it now.
INTERVIEWER
And you were already working with Adelphi?
CALASSO
Yes, the first books by Adelphi appeared at the end of ’63. Roberto Bazlen, the man who originally conceived Adelphi’s program, was staying in Rome as well, so I saw him a lot.
INTERVIEWER
Then you worked at Adelphi from the beginning?
CALASSO
Since my twenty-first birthday, in 1962. That was the day on which Bazlen told me that a publishing house was going to start where we might publish the books we truly liked. It didn’t even have a name yet. The books in my room at the publishing house are what remains of the large and precious library he had—it was the library of a man who bought the novels of Kafka and Joyce when they appeared because they were the young writers around. He is the one who really discovered Svevo, for instance. He ordered his friend Montale to read this totally obscure writer.
INTERVIEWER
Bazlen helped you navigate the world of letters in your youth?
CALASSO
Bazlen was a great Taoist master. He taught me more than anyone else, without teaching anything. He was rather against writing, he didn’t think one should necessarily write. He thought one ought to try to be in some way, without necessarily writing about it. He had a stupendous line, which is published in his posthumous writings—“Once people were born alive and slowly they died. Now one is born dead and slowly has to come to life.” In 1965 Bazlen died, and Adelphi had its first big financial crisis. But we managed to survive. In 1968, I realized I had to come to Milan, and I officially became the editorial director in ’71. From then on, I always did the same things—reading, choosing, and preparing books.
INTERVIEWER
You had a passion for it.
CALASSO
Always. For me, it was absolutely natural. As natural as writing.
INTERVIEWER
Do you write on a computer?
CALASSO
I write with this pen. I have always written with a fountain pen. Always in longhand. For many years I used to copy the final text on a Lettera 22. By now I have three Lettera 22s. One is mine, one Bazlen’s, and the other one is Brodsky’s, with a Cyrillic keyboard. We were the closest friends. I treasure it.
INTERVIEWER
What color is your ink?
CALASSO
Usually it’s black. Red for corrections. Then I hand the pages to my assistant, Federica, and she transcribes them on the computer.
INTERVIEWER
Do you recorrect?
CALASSO
There may be no further corrections, or endless ones. I have never written a book, except maybe L’impuro folle, from beginning to end. It is always a mosaic, if you will, in which I write page 80, 30, 315 in any given order. And I never know where the final place of what I am writing in the book will be. It’s the same with every book. I also have thousands of Bristol cards. I use them for detailed notes on the books I read, and more general notes as well. I call this “the material.” It’s whatever may be useful one day. Sometimes these cards contain fragments of my future books.
INTERVIEWER
You never compose on a computer.
CALASSO
Never. The computer I use for other things—the Internet, reading. There is a huge number of books Google has digitized, a treasure of which I take advantage every day.
INTERVIEWER
Do you have a daily ritual?
CALASSO
In the morning I try not to have much to do with the publishing house. I prefer to simply write, to work on my books. Then, around three thirty, I go to Adelphi and I stay there until seven. Well, in truth, that is how things should be, but they are disrupted practically every day. Every morning I am called, I have to call, there are e-mails coming, so I never feel totally separated from the publishing house. Thankfully I have such bright collaborators, people with whom I get on very well, and we don’t have those endless meetings that are the torture of publishing life. So I can’t complain. I am very happy it works this way. For a house that publishes by now eighty to ninety new titles a year, it is indispensable.
On Friday, before you came, we had one of those rituals called a “sales conference,” and I had to talk about twenty-eight books, giving each roughly three minutes, so that our eighty salespeople would go off and speak for thirty seconds to the booksellers about each of the same books. It is rather harrowing.
INTERVIEWER
Has e-mail disrupted your writing and your intellectual life?