Primo Levi’s work presents an extraordinarily rich and articulated case of intertextuality. Being a curious, omnivorous, and asystematic reader, Levi explored multiple fields of knowledge – literary, scientific, historical, etc. – browsing between specialized and popular books and magazines, for reasons of research or pure entertainment, often approaching foreign cultures in the original language, driven by his eclectic curiosity and an intense desire to know and understand. Already fathomed in part by Levi himself in his anthology The Search for Roots (1981), his library remains however to be discovered. This volume intends to trace the features of a critical map of the grafts, intertexts and transplants that link Levi’s work to the books of others, by comparing it with twenty-one authors, in a “polyglot and multipurpose” gallery that includes classics such as Dante, Shakespeare, Leopardi, Baudelaire, and Carroll; authors of modern literature such as Kafka, Mann, and Calvino; and scientists such as Galileo, Darwin, Heisenberg, and Lorenz.
Table of contents
Domenico Scarpa: Prefazione xi Gianluca Cinelli e Robert S. C. Gordon: Introduzione 1
Parte I – Gli strumenti umani Antonio Di Meo: Primo Levi e William Henry Bragg 19 Mario Porro: Primo Levi e Galileo Galilei 37 Patrizia Piredda: Primo Levi e Werner Heisenberg 55 Alberto Cavaglion: Primo Levi e Giuseppe Gioachino Belli 73 Enzo Ferrara: Primo Levi e Stanislaw Lem 87 Stefano Bartezzaghi: Primo Levi e Lewis Carroll 107
Parte II – La condizione umana Vittorio Montemaggi: Primo Levi e Dante 127 Valentina Geri: Primo Levi e William Shakespeare 143 Simone Ghelli: Primo Levi e Pierre Bayle 161 Martina Piperno: Primo Levi e Giacomo Leopardi 179 Damiano Benvegnù: Primo Levi e Konrad Lorenz 197 Pierpaolo Antonello: Primo Levi e Charles Darwin 215
Parte III – Comprendere e narrare il Lager Charles L. Leavitt IV: Primo Levi e Elio Vittorini 237 Uri S. Cohen: Primo Levi e Vercors 255 Sibilla Destefani: Primo Levi e Charles Baudelaire 273 Stefano Bellin: Primo Levi e Franz Kafka 287 Davide Crosara: Primo Levi e Samuel Beckett 305
Parte IV – La ricerca di sé Martina Mengoni: Primo Levi e Thomas Mann 327 Gianluca Cinelli: Primo Levi e Herman Melville 345 Mattia Cravero: Primo Levi e Ovidio 361 Marco Belpoliti: Primo Levi e Italo Calvino 381
We are delighted to announce that the second issue of the Close Encounters in War Journal has been published online. This issue marks the real start of our project and is devoted to a topic that seemed relevant to us both for its historical meaning and its topicality. In fact, the issue hosts five contributions by authors who consider the theme of close encounters, displacement and war from a great variety of angles and in different disciplines.
Displacement and forced migration represent some of the most worrying issues of the contemporary world: according to data published by the United Nations Refugee Agency (UNHCR) there are currently 70.8 million forced migrants globally (Figures at a Glance, 2019) and its reports also show that wars, persecutions, violence and human rights violations are among the main causes of current forced migrations. The current crisis is unprecedented and calls for a deep reflection on how to face its urgency, particularly in relation to the situation of the people involved and the humanitarian emergency. In this special issue we look at displacement and forced migration caused by war and conflict in the contemporary era, with a particular focus on the challenges met by those who experienced it.
The five articles collected in the present issue cover a number of case-studies of displacement that vary as to geographical and chronological context, methodological approach, and specific disciplinary field, as far as they range from oral history to cultural history, and cultural studies.
The author of the first contribution, Christoph Declercq, focuses on the “odd case” of Belgian refugees in the United Kingdom during WW1, a small community of displaced people who were warmly welcomed and rather well absorbed in the British daily life, but who were soon after their repatriation forgotten. As Declercq claims, “the destitute Belgians had been used as a tool of warfare and when the war was finally over, those tools were hastily discarded, and all the stories that came with them suppressed” (infra, p. 14), which was one of the reasons why this group of displaced people remained so long forgotten by historians. Actually, as the author shows, the story of this group was more complex than a simple mass movement from Belgium to UK, and the figures of the mobility are therefore analysed thoroughly in order to understand what actual perception the Britons had of this phenomenon of displacement.
In the second article, Simona Tobia presents a number of case-studies deriving from oral history interviews that cover the displacement of Jewish Europeans fleeing from Nazi Germany to the United States before and during WW2, facing very challenging experiences of adaptation and integration. The author opens her article by discussing a number of methodological issues of oral history in order to theoretically frame her work and the use she makes of her sources. Tobia’s main concern is the emotional impact that displacement has on those who experience it, which often affects their ability to remember and share effectively the most traumatic aspects of their journey. She therefore claims that any oral history of displacement must take into account not only the cultural issues related to oral narrative but also the emotional impact of being displaced in terms of identity-building and memory, because “the strategies of memory composure that the narrators in these case studies used revolve around cultural knowledge, on the one hand, and emotions and feelings, on the other” (infra, p. 44).
The author of the third article, Barbara Krasner, touches upon another rather neglected scenario of displacement, namely that of Polish citizens who were caught between Hitler’s and Stalin’s regimes in 1939, when Poland was invaded by the Wehrmacht from the west and by the Red Army from the east. This form of displacement concerned above all the Jewish population of the town of Ostrova, who found themselves trapped between two invaders who equally threatened their survival. Thus, “the decision to cross or not cross the border in the first three months of Nazi and Soviet occupation of Poland had longer-term consequences for the Jews of Ostrova” (infra, p. 63), which reminds us that displacement is a multi-faceted phenomenon that can be very different from case to case. Displacement can turn itself into a deadly condition for those groups of people that for racial, ethnic, religious or political reasons are particularly exposed to persecution both in the place they flee from and in those they try to enter.
The fourth article by Elisheva Perelman takes us in Japan in 1945, when the country is occupied by the American troops and the encounter between the soldiers and the civilians gives birth to the need for normalizing gendered relationships between America and Japan. To cover this topic, Perelman chooses to focus on a well-known post-war product of American pop culture, i.e. the cartoon Babysan, first published in 1951 and depicting the regime of occupation in a palatable way, which means in a sexually hegemonized way. Babysan made thus an ideal ethnographic object through which the Americans could look at defeated and occupied Japan in terms of naivety and objectification. Perleman also shows that the experience of displacement can occur without being removed from one’s own place. Babysan depicts a culture that has been displaced by the very glance that the occupiers have cast on it. As a “symbol of occupation and subjugation, of racism and misogyny” (infra, p. 81), Babysan reveals much about the complex reality of displacement in war.
The fifth and last article considers a more recent scenario, i.e. the worldwide diaspora of Somali citizens in the wake of the Somali civil war. Natoschia Scruggs takes into account testimonies of Somali displaced people resident in the United States, some of whom, though, have had previous experience of displacement in Europe and other countries in Africa or the Middle East. Once again, this article shows that displacement triggers a long chain of identity-related issues in those who are involved, in particular for people coming from cultural milieus where “clan affiliation and one’s immediate family are significant sources of personal identity and security” (infra, p. 92). What emerges is that generalisation is not useful when one attempts to understand the impact of displacement on such aspects as identity-building, self-perception, or social relationships, which are largely dependent on the cultural milieu of origin.We wish to extend a warm thank you to all the people who work with us to realize this project: our Editorial Board, the many scholars who accept to act as peer reviewers, and all those who have supported our project with counsel, criticism and constructive dialogue. And above all, the contributors, who have allowed us the privilege to read and publish their excellent academic work.
Primo Levi (Turin, 1919-1987) was a writer known to the world for his works of testimony on deportation to Auschwitz. He was born from a Jewish family and he graduated in chemistry in 1941, despite the restrictions imposed by racial laws to Jewish students. He received from chemistry a first fundamental lesson of life: that in the struggle with matter, humans get a hint of what their own limits and strengths are. Levi realised that imperfection and asymmetry are fundamental aspects of reality, which is not dominated by the Spirit (as the fascist school, marked by distinction between humanistic culture and technical culture, taught). At the same time, chemistry was for Levi a school of rigor and precision, of patience, and of rejection of approximation. It was an apprenticeship that consolidated a background of culture acquired by young Primo not only through his broad literary readings (Rabelais, Melville, Conrad and many others) but also scientific and philosophical knowledge, attained thanks to the books that his father collected. In an age of cultural provincialism, such a complex, rich and pragmatic formation moulded the mind of young Primo, opening it to curiosity and above all to the belief that there are no separate cultures (humanism vs science), but only one single culture, for knowledge is made of the blending of its diverse parts. And since the whole is always greater than the sum of its parts, such a culture promised to be far more fruitful than the stagnating idealism that dominated Italian cultural environment in the 1930s. The idea of a unitary culture went back to Aristotle, Dante Alighieri, Leonardo da Vinci, Galileo Galilei, and Isaac Newton. For these thinkers, science, technology, philosophy, art, ethics, mathematics, physics, biology made one single and uninterrupted horizon of knowledge.
Then, on 8th September 1943, everything changed. Fascism had already been overthrown on 25th July of the same year. Italy had lost the war and now the Germans, who had been allies until the day before, became enemies and occupiers. For Italian Jews the situation quickly collapsed because while the military and political alliance between Italy and Hitler’s Germany had protected them (albeit in segregation), now the SS could deport them along with the other Jews of Europe. Primo left Turin and, urged by a generous albeit vague will to fighting, reached the partisans in the mountains. He was captured almost immediately and to save himself from a death sentence, he declared not to be a partisan but rather a Jew.
In February, after a period of internment in a concentration camp near Fossoli, he was deported to Auschwitz, where he worked as a forced labourer in the synthetic rubber factory (run by the large industrial group IG-Farben), annexed to camp 11 Buna-Monowitz. He remained there until the liberation on 27th January 1945. After his youthful and adventurous apprenticeship under the sign of chemistry, this new experience completed his education and human training to the point that Levi declared in the 1970s that Auschwitz had been his university. Surviving in an extermination Lager was no minor feat that prompted the young man to recount his adventures as soon as he returned to Italy in 1945. However, it was not a question of narrating facts in the fashion of romantic adventures, because the matter was too serious and incredible. Levi told his story through an original lens of lucid and almost detached, scientific observation, as if Auschwitz had been a huge laboratory in which the Nazis had conducted a horrible social and biological experiment. Described as a primordial struggle for survival, captivity is told in Se questo è un uomo (1947) as a journey to self-discovery by fathoming the human capacity to reach unexpected depths of abjection. Hence the question, at the end of the journey, whether the survivor is still a human creature.
But Primo Levi was not only an Auschwitz-witness, although he dedicated to this theme numerous books after Se questo è un uomo (La tregua, Lilìt e altri racconti, and I sommersi e i salvati, as well as a number of essays and articles). In the 1960s his multifaceted interest in science and technology prompted him to reflect on the problems of modernity through a form that was underdeveloped in Italian literature of those years, i.e. science fiction. He published two volumes of short stories, Storie naturali in 1966 (under the pseudonym of Damiano Malabaila) and Vizio di forma in 1971, exploring many an aspect of modernity and translating into “fantabiological” contexts (the expression was forged by Italo Calvino) the discourse about the Lager. With these stories, he reflected on the risks of electing technique to absolute paradigm of organization of life and human progress, and incorporating in his writing non-literary models borrowed from science.
And above all there was
chemistry that since the end of the war had constituted the main job of Primo
Levi. Not theoretical chemistry but rather industrial chemistry that is made
with the five senses, with hands, by struggling to tame matter, yet without
forgetting the immeasurable force of nature that never yields to human will. In
1975 Levi published Il Sistema periodico, a kind of autobiography
in which he retraced the stages of his own human and cultural development by
choosing chemistry as a criterion (and metaphor) to organise the book. After
the mortifying experience of the Lager, where work was designed to murder the
forced-labourers, Levi now recounted the uplifting experience of vocational
work that makes life worthwhile and makes individuals aware of their own strengths
This book was followed in 1978
by La chiave a stella, anther work devoted to the theme of work that ironically
bridged between the “chemical” and “literary” aspects of professional
achievement. The result is a reflection on work as a fundamental experience for
human happiness, coupled with a new kind of reflection that would occupy Levi more
and more in the following years: the awareness of being now a full-time writer
(Levi retired from his chemist job at the end of the decade). The “two souls” –
the chemist and the writer – coexisted (Levi called himself a “centaur”) as the
two faces of one single, complex personality capable of creating and
manipulating reality with chemical and verbal processes. No matter if he
combined molecules or words, the effect remained the same: life is an endless exploration
of reality with the tools that we possess, the senses, the body, the mind and
knowledge that over thousands of years of cultural evolution has permitted us
to undertake the daily struggle for life.
The 1980s marked a return to
the past. As Levi increasingly wrote in newspapers about literature and reviewed
books of other writers, he was invited by his publisher to edit an anthology of
readings of special importance for his intellectual education, a kind of
autobiography through readings (La ricerca delle radici 1981).
Nonetheless, his focus remained fixed on the Lager experience. Revisionism
spread over Europe, Faurisson’s thesis received consensus and a growing number
of people were inclined to deny that Lagers, crematoriums, and even the great
Nazi massacre had ever occurred. The memory of the “unhealable offence”
faltered, partly under the blows of the negationists, and partly because of its
own physiological decadence. Years passed by, memories changed or faded,
witnesses disappeared. In the same year Levi published Lilìt e altri racconti, a collection of stories about the Lager combined
with science-fiction tales. Then, in 1983, he translated Franz Kafka’s Der Prozess, a demanding endeavour that brought Levi back to struggle with the nightmare
of deportation and senseless persecution. It was the beginning of the
depression, against which Levi fought over the last years of his life. In 1982
he published his only novel, Se non ora, quando?, a story inspired by
real facts and centred on the adventures of a group of Russian Jewish
partisans: as if to say that not all Jews passively succumbed to the massacre,
that there was also those who, although in absolute minority, fought back.
But the most important work
that fermented in those years was I sommersi e i salvati, the last essay that Levi published in 1986, one year before committing
suicide. The title had already appeared in a chapter of Se questo è un uomo, but this work was new and rather different. This book largely consisted of
memory and therefore must be defended from memory itself, because recollections
change over the years and end up replacing the original “raw” ones. In the end –
Levi claimed – the survivors of the Nazi extermination, both the perpetrators and
the victims (yet on opposite principles and with different aims), produce “prosthetic
memories” by which they can rework their past experiences in a way that makes them
bearable. The true integral witnesses of the Lager, Levi says in one of the
most controversial passages of the work, are those who died there, for they “saw
the bottom”. One year later, like other survivors such as Paul Celan or Jean
Amery, Levi committed suicide without providing any explanation.
Primo Levi was one of the most
“multifaceted” Italian intellectuals of the twentieth century. Able to explore
the literary field ranging from ancient classics to foreign literature,
including distant genres and little-known authors, Levi was able to interpret
his role as an intellectual without forgetting his work as a scientist and
technician. His scientific culture was comparable to that of Renaissance
intellectuals, for whom it was natural to integrate poetry, mathematics, music,
physics, metaphysics, etc. into one single, broad cultural horizon. Twentieth-century
Italian culture experienced rare moments of similar integration of the humanistic
and technical cultures, thanks to such intellectuals as Carlo Emilio Gadda,
Italo Calvino, Mario Rigoni Stern and a few others, who were able to cross
disciplinary boundaries and to understand the world as complexity.
What impresses Levi’s readers is
the expressive clarity, the lucidity with which he tackles serious themes
without indulging in psychologism or morbid aestheticization of graphic
details. With the scientist’s detached gaze, Levi struggled to understand what
happens when a sophisticated and deeply articulated form of life like the human
being is placed in conditions of extreme danger, suffering, or severe stress. Under
the dire circumstance of rationally programmed extermination – as that carried
out in Nazi Lagers – the magnificent and progressive fortunes of humanity
invoked by the Enlightenment are shaken to the foundations and what remains is the
Pascalian image of a hybrid creature, half angel and half beast, unable to turn
itself into the former or the latter, but dangerously tending downwards,
towards its dark side, from which it must keep away through a constant moral
and rational effort.
Levi teaches a profound lesson
in critical thinking because he, as a technician, knew the advantages and
dangers of technology. As an instrument it facilitates the life and progress of
the species, but as an ideology it produces a cruel and mechanical world, where
the ends prevaricate the means and where the human is only one of the many
tools that can be exploited to death. As to such consideration, Levi bridged
between classical and contemporary paradigms. His ideology was deeply rooted in
nineteenth-century positivist thought and his humanism traced perhaps even
further back to the great moralistic masters of the seventeenth century, to the
scientist-poets of the Renaissance. The challenges of modernity took place for
Levi on the border between humans and world, where the two terms meet and
collide: for humans too often fail to conceive themselves as part of the world,
while the world does not yield to their will of power.
Levi’s moral lesson is
invaluable because human history shows a certain tendency to repeat itself. Levi’s
analyses and diagnoses, exposed with the seriousness of the doctor who has well
considered the symptoms of his patient, remain exemplary and enlightening to
understand and recognise dangerous human behaviours: the marginalization of minorities,
manipulation, the construction of artificial myths and truths on which opinions
are based, the twisting of experience into forms of false knowledge. All these
aspects concern us as well because these are cognitive, evolutionary and
psychological mechanisms of human life, both individual and collective.
Levi’s confidence in reason,
in humanity’s ability to dwell in the light (according to a traditional
metaphor dear to the writer), which is to prefer to darkness just as clarity is
preferable to incomprehensibility, made of him the writer who, since his
youthful and romantic struggle with Matter to his deadly fight with the Gorgon,
never lost his faith in the human. And because of that – or in spite of it all –,
it never ceases to surprise how deeply Levi could grasp the humorous side of
life, even in the most horrible circumstances.
One hundred years after his
birth there is still much to understand and learn from this multifaceted