Elsa Morante’s Lies and Sorcery, first published in Italian in 1948, was initially translated into English in the 1950s, but sadly in an abridged version that broke Morante’s heart. Now, thanks to Jenny McPhee and NYRB Classics, we have the complete English translation. More than giving us the full text, though, McPhee’s translation is pure magic. Whether this novel enchants or aggravates you (and it did both to me), its writing captivates with a delicate verve. McPhee recently won John Florio Prize for her work here, and it is well deserved.

The novel’s prologue introducing Elisa, our narrator. After enduring much, she is cloistered away from the world around her, and has been for years, since the death of her parents “produced a brutal transformation in me”:

Before, I had been a sensible, observant, even fastidious little girl; from then on, I was visited by extravagant, depraved spirits and surrounded by a lunatic miasma. Though shy and skittish by nature, I had previously been friends with other children my age. Now, I became a nun-like recluse, possessed and crazed.

And now with the recent death of her guardian — a well-to-do prostitute — Elisa retreats further into the isolation of her bedroom, a space she rarely leaves. From there, she sets out to recount the tangled histories of her parents and grandparents, along with a cast of colorful figures on the periphery. But why now? Why, at this moment, does she feel compelled to document the past? Writing — reshaping reality, controlling how others (and oneself) perceive the truth — is at the heart of the novel. Completely alone for the first time after years spent depending on the scant love of just a few troubled people, Elisa seems determined to figure out — or invent — who she is. At least she knows it: “And although throughout this book you’ll come to know, dear reader, more than one character afflicted with our disease of delusion, you’ve already met the sickest character of all — me, Elisa, the writer of this book.”

That prologue is utterly captivating. As I read it, I was certain I had found my favorite book of the year. That didn’t quite turn out to be the case, but I’m still so glad I navigated Elisa’s treacherous history.

That’s easier to say now that I’ve made it through. Lies and Sorcery has got to be the most relentless novel I have ever read. It immerses the reader in a world of obsession, manipulation, and abuse, all told with unyielding intensity that unapologetically veers into melodrama. Page after page, the novel confronts us with the same patterns of cruelty — and unsettling devotion it inspires in the abused — revealing how power sustains itself through manipulation. It makes for an exhausting reading experience, at times teetering on the edge of repetition. Yet Morante (and McPhee) are far too brilliant to be merely spinning in circles. The novel’s psychological depth is remarkable, and I’m certain its relentless cycles are deliberate — a way of delivering, as McPhee puts it in her introduction, “a stunning depiction of humanity’s stagnation.”

Lies and Sorcery is filled with characters I will never forget, but one casts a shadow over them all — even after he has, for the most part, left the stage. I’m not sure I have ever hated a literary character as much as I hated Edoardo. The cousin of Elisa’s dead mother, Anna, Edoardo is born into wealth and arrogance, treating everyone he encounters with cruelty and disdain. Yet many, Anna included, only love him more for it. Even in his absence, his presence must be maintained — reinvented, sustained. And how is that done? Through writing.

It’s a strange feeling to admire a novel as much as I admire this one — to find the writing and emotions so powerful and incisive — yet still struggle under the weight of its unrelenting intensity. Often I found myself resisting it (though never for the final 100 pages or so). But I suspect Morante would see my reaction as a success. To be honest, I do too. This book brilliantly pulled me in even as it pushed me away. I loved it even as it repelled me.