I went back and forth on this novel a bit as I read. I think my feelings were framed by the contrast between the late 19th/early 20th century division between the realist (Verismo in Italy) and decadent schools of novel writing that immediately preceded the modernist experiment. I was at first rather angry at the narrator of Senilita' for his entirely indefensible attitude toward women--that it was fine that the protagonist, Emilio Brentani, as a middle-aged bourgeois man, take a lover with no intention of marrying her in a society in which the woman would face much more dire social consequences for such behavior. I was looking at the political/societal situation first and foremost but Svevo's novel is rather more firmly rooted in the decadent tradition, concerned with the interior emotional lives of the various characters rather than the societal double standard.

As the novel goes on the characters, their interior lives, sorrows and tragic misapprehensions became more and more engrossing and I was able, eventually, to stop grousing, to abandon myself to the reading, and to really enjoy the artistry behind this evocation of pre-WWI alienation and solitude in Trieste. By the end I found myself very moved. The novel is quite unflinching in its depiction of the loneliness of the unattractive, the foibles of a mediocre, middle-class middle-aged man and woman (Brentani and his sister, Amalia), and the casual vanity of those more suited to romantic encounters as exemplified by Emilio's lover, Angiolina and his best buddy, Stefano Balli. It's a slow build-up well worth the payoff of the final three chapters.

Another interesting aspect of this novel--which sheds light on Svevo's later triumph, La Coscienza di Zeno--is how Senilita' terms love as a kind of sickness from which our Emilio is forever trying to "heal himself." It says a lot about the rationalist, bourgeois mindset of late 19th century Europe. A man decides that he should take a lover, but not in a serious way, merely as a distraction or middle-aged pastime, because he's never done it before. As soon as he feels actual emotion for the woman he chooses--a vain and duplicitous woman apparently thriving on playing a field of lovers for perhaps her own ego as well as to support her family--he becomes vulnerable to her whims and lies, and this disruption of the power structures between them can only be seen from his point of view as an illness that he must cure. In the parallel narrative, Emilio's sister Amalia literally falls ill of her unrequited love for Emilio's best friend, the careless bachelor Balli. By novel's end, both are cured, in their own way. But, like so many of our modern medicines, one wonders what's worse, the cancer or the cure.

Also a funny note: The two women of the novel, Angiolina and Amalia can only remind of the three sisters with names beginning with "A" of Zeno: Ada, Augusta, and Alberta. There I have always assumed the women were meant to contrast with the "Z" of the narrator, Zeno, but here it just seemed like some weird predilection of Svevo's to match the women with "A"'s and the men with "B"'s--Brentani and Balli. Boh!

You know how people talk about books that "changed my life"? Well, I don't think books can change your life (at least not in my case), but I think they can help you change your life (in other words, you change your life, not the book -- ok, pedantic point, but still, wanted to be clear on that....)
Well, this book, along with Buzzati's Il deserto dei Tartari helped me change my life (actually, I have 2 non-fiction examples that did the same, albeit in different ways: Lewis Hyde's The Gift, and Norman O Brown's Life Against Death).
How did this book help change my life? By showing me, in stark color, myself. It didn't show me something I didn't already know. What it did was help me to see what I already knew rationally in another, more emotional way. It showed me the tortured mechanisms of my mind for what they are: bullshit wankitude. It showed me what happens when you don't see things for what they are (Buzzati's book did the same): you don't live.

A note on the style: I enjoyed the Antonioni-esque usage of landscape and weather as a backdrop to the psychological drama.

Interesting trivia point: on its initial publication in 1898 this book had no success, and was not mentioned (either favorably or unfavorably) by any critic. 25 years later, James Joyce convinced Svevo to release a 2nd edition. Thanks James!

Took me almost five months to finish but was definitely worth savoring in small doses to take in all those delicious sentences. One of those rare books that leave you wondering how they could've possibly been written that many decades ago. Still every bit as fresh as it must've undoubtedly been back in 1898!

Italo Svevo es uno de mis escritores favoritos, a la altura de nombres como Dostoievski o Austen, ni más ni menos. La primera virtud de Svevo es su estilo, sencillo y de una perfección hipnótica, que a veces te obliga a volver atrás para releer pasajes. En cierto modo me recuerda al de Camus, porque, aunque suenan de lo más natural, los dos hacen lo que quieren con el lenguaje, sin que parezca nunca forzado y ni siquiera manipulado. Otra razón por amar a Svevo es que consigue construir toda una novela con un argumento mínimo, porque lo que le importa es analizar a los personajes, presentar con todos los detalles y contradicciones una serie de carácteres. Otra razón por la que querer Svevo es que, sin describirla, retrata perfectamente cómo debe ser el ambiente de una ciudad de provincias como Trieste, tan bien que casi ya parece que has estado allí. A partir de aquí, las otras razones ya son cada vez más personales.

Me encanta que todos sus protagonistas sean tipos grises que piensan demasiado y que actúan poco, personas que se ven empujadas a hacer una serie de absurdidades que saben que les van a perjudicar y que la mayoría de veces ni siquiera quieren hacer, pero se sienten obligados a hacerlo porque creen que es lo que se espera de ellos. En todas sus novelas hay un choque entre los ideales y la realidad, y en todas hay también una ironía distanciadora, a veces amarga y a veces más amable, pero que siempre funciona perfectamente.

El protagonista de 'Senectud' es Emilio, un tipo inevitablemente gris, que vive con su hermana y que toda su vida se ha visto marcada por la muerte y la pobreza, cosa que le ha encadenado a una vida que no es vida y que se limita a una serie de obligaciones rutinarias, la más importante de las cuales es el trabajo. Un buen día decide que quizás sea bueno vivir y disfrutar un poco, pero sin involucrarse demasiado, pero parece que ignora que esto es imposible: o bien estás dentro de la vida (real) o bien estás fuera; no hay término medio. En todo caso, decide echarse una novia, Angiolina, pero le remarca desde el principio que él sólo quiere pasar el rato, que su relación nunca será nada serio.

Él cree que Angiolina es una chica ingenua y pura, y se propone corromperla un poco. Está tan ensimismado en hacerse el hombre de mundo que no se da cuenta que de los dos el pardillo es él. La acción es mínima. A partir de aquí prácticamente lo único que pasa es que a pesar de descubrir que Angiolina no es quién creía y que la relación con ella sólo le aporta sufrimiento, sigue insistiendo en seguir con ella. Una y otra vez, se promete que todo se ha terminado pero vuelve a caer. Y a pesar de todo esto la novela nunca se hace repetitiva.

El problema de Emilio es que en el fondo es un idealista y se ha enamorado de una persona real y realista, y esto nunca puede funcionar. A pesar de que es algo triste, en el final ya se empieza a intuir el mensaje final de 'La conciencia de Zeno': que vivir es sufrir, pero vivir al menos es algo. Emilio, en su vejez, cuando se ha vuelto a esconder en su caparazón, lo único que puede recordar es su relación con Angiolina, porque aunque prácticamente sólo le reportó dolor, al menos este dolor le indicaba que estaba vivo.

Hagamos una recapitulación. 'Una vida' es muy decimonónica, terriblemente cruel y muy deprimente, tanto que me provocó ganas de tirarme por la ventana, pero a pesar de esto se impone una relectura ya. 'La conciencia de Zeno' es su obra maestra, la más compleja y ambiciosa, también la más optimista. Pero 'Senectud' es una pequeña joya que sorprende por lo fresca y moderna que es.

This second novel by Italo Svevo had published in 1898, six years after [b:Une Vie|18685553|Une Vie|Italo Svevo|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1382058996l/18685553._SY75_.jpg|168361] (1892).

Emilio Brantani, a modest employee in an insurance company, wrote a childhood novel and did not give up his literary ambitions. He lives with his sister Emilie. Emilio has a tumultuous affair with the beautiful and fickle Angiolina, while his unattractive sister is secretly in love with the sculptor Balli, Emilio's best friend. Emilio's indecision, awkwardness, and jealousy of his sister, friend, and mistress will provoke sentimental heartbreaks and breakups.
This brilliant psychological study tackles the same themes as Svevo's other novel with the figure of the reflective and hesitant antihero who ruins his chances of happiness. The theme of lies is omnipresent with characters who all lie or disguise the truth out of interest, modesty, pride, respect. Situations that could be healthy and simple become more complex to the point that it is no longer possible to get out of this psychological imbroglio.
In "The conscience of Zeno", a chapter was devoted to the father's death.

I preferred [b:Zeno's Conscience|84737|Zeno's Conscience|Italo Svevo|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1634559146l/84737._SY75_.jpg|66906] for its humour, relative optimism, and the positively endearing side of its characters.