{"product_id":"the-life-of-those-left-behind-isbn-9781635424522","title":"The Life of Those Left Behind","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn this heartbreaking yet hopeful autobiographical novel, an acclaimed Italian author who lost his partner to suicide testifies to the power of storytelling in living with grief.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen 30-year-old Matteo B. Bianchi published his debut novel in 1999, the timing couldn’t have been worse: he had just lost S., the man he’d lived with for 7 years, who one day, a few months after they broke up, killed himself in their apartment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMatteo discovers the body. He feels trapped in a labyrinth of contradictory emotions and constant bewilderment, which unites all the so-called survivors of the suicide of a loved one. Yet even in his darkest hours, the writer in him starts taking notes. At first they are just fragments, shards of an existence shattered into a thousand pieces. Then they slowly transform and, memory after memory, become a profound conversation with S., caught between the temptation to let go and the desire to get back to life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBoth radical and vulnerable, intimate and universal, \u003ci\u003eThe Life of Those Who Remain \u003c\/i\u003eis a devastating but luminous novel about surviving the aftermath of trauma. Bianchi produces pages of excruciating beauty, recounting his journey to redemption and rebirth, and showing how, even in the depths of the most unspeakable pain, writing—his own, and also powerful works such as Joan Didion’s \u003ci\u003eThe Year of Magical Thinking \u003c\/i\u003eand Ocean Vuong’s \u003ci\u003eOn Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous\u003c\/i\u003e—can still save us.“A tragic yet optimistic autobiographical novel…brave…moving.” —\u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Searingly poignant…an emotional portrait of unbearable loss, redemption, survival, and the struggle to find your way back from an event that detaches and derails everything about life itself. Written with eloquent prose and exacting, moving detail, Bianchi tells the tale of his broken life through fictional means, but with all the truths of loss, guilt, and self-forgiveness embedded throughout it. This is unforgettable.” \u003ci\u003e—Bay Area Reporter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Haunting and haunted. As beautiful as it is devastating. \u003ci\u003eThe Life of Those Left Behind\u003c\/i\u003e is one of those rare books to capture the brutal nature of grief and loss while soaring as a stunning work of literature. Matteo B. Bianchi serves as both traveler and guide into a terrifying underworld we never expect to enter. It’s an indelible meditation on suicide, precision-tuned to break your heart.” —Christopher Bollen, author of \u003ci\u003eHavoc\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It may be difficult to pigeonhole Matteo Bianchi’s new book, but there is no doubt that it is a brilliant exploration of an unbearable loss. Bianchi, who is a master storyteller, an insightful and sensitive memoirist, and a lyrical stylist, unites all his formidable talents in a book that thrillingly engages the reader’s mind and heart. \u003ci\u003eThe Life of Those Left Behind\u003c\/i\u003e (seamlessly translated by Michael F. Moore), is a unique and important contribution to the literature of grieving, loving, and living.” —Peter Cameron, author of \u003ci\u003eSomeday This Pain Will Be Useful to You\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With \u003ci\u003eThe Life of Those Left Behind\u003c\/i\u003e, Matteo B. Bianchi, one of Italy’s finest writers, attains new heights of intimacy, acuity, and eloquence. A chronicle of a loved one’s suicide—what led up to it and what followed it—the novel is also a testament to human endurance and compassion, fallibility and wisdom. A necessary book.” —David Leavitt, author of \u003ci\u003eShelter in Place\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I have been waiting for a book like this for a long time…Matteo [Bianchi] is unique. \u003ci\u003eThe Life of Those Left Behind\u003c\/i\u003e is a masterpiece that sheds light on his entire journey. It’s an invaluable gift for readers.” —Paolo Cognetti, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Eight Mountains\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eMatteo B. Bianchi\u003c\/b\u003e, born in Milan in 1966, is an author, editor, and screenwriter. His previous novels include \u003ci\u003eGenerations of Love \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eMaria Accanto\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003eThe Life of Those Left Behind\u003c\/i\u003e will be published in ten languages.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eMichael F. Moore \u003c\/b\u003eis the award-winning translator, most recently, of \u003ci\u003eThe Betrothed\u003c\/i\u003e, by Alessandro Manzoni, hailed as a landmark literary event. His translations range from twentieth-century classics—\u003ci\u003eAgostino\u003c\/i\u003e by Alberto Moravia and \u003ci\u003eThe Drowned and the Saved\u003c\/i\u003e by Primo Levi—to contemporary novels, including \u003ci\u003eLive Bait\u003c\/i\u003e, by Fabio Genovesi. Moore is the former chair of the PEN\/Heim Translation Fund and has a PhD in Italian from New York University. For many years he was also an interpreter at the United Nations and a full-time staff member of the Permanent Mission of Italy to the United Nations.Someone called an\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eambulance. The doorman? A neighbor? I have no idea who had gone to the trouble.\u003cbr\u003eI could tell because I heard the sirens blaring. I heard them growing nearer and then stopping, at full blast, right below my window, before turning off with a throbbing sound.\u003cbr\u003eI know that it’s useless, that there will be no extreme attempts to revive him, that it’s already too late.\u003cbr\u003eI am at the doorway.\u003cbr\u003eFrom the windows, from the balconies, dozens of people are staring at me. Out on the landing, a huddle of neighbors. They say nothing, and look alarmed and confused.\u003cbr\u003eI hear the voices of the paramedics climbing the stairs, their frantic footsteps. My apartment is on the fifth floor.\u003cbr\u003eWhen the three men in white uniforms carrying a stretcher reach my landing, they’re sweating and breathing heavily. The first one looks around for a moment. He notices the idle elevator at the top of the next flight of stairs. He rolls his eyes, turns to me, and exclaims, “Why didn’t anyone tell us there’s an elevator?”\u003cbr\u003eThe elevator.\u003cbr\u003eS. is there, on the floor, and I was supposed to advise them to take the elevator.\u003cbr\u003eI don’t answer, of course. I can’t. \u003cbr\u003eThe first of many times.\u003cbr\u003ePeople will ask and I won’t know what to say. \u003cbr\u003eFor months. For years.\u003cbr\u003eForever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut did you\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eknow this could happen? Did you notice any signs?\u003cbr\u003eYes.\u003cbr\u003eAnd you didn’t do anything?\u003cbr\u003eI mentioned it. To his family. To his friends. \u003cbr\u003eWhat did they say?\u003cbr\u003eThey said not to worry, that he was only being dramatic, that he just wanted to scare me.\u003cbr\u003eAnd you?\u003cbr\u003eI was afraid he meant it; I could feel it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eWe hadn’t been\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eliving together for three months. We broke up at the end of August 1998.\u003cbr\u003eS. still had my house keys. He had left behind most of his stuff (clothing, shoes, odds and ends) until he found a new place. Every now and then he would stop by to pick up something he needed.\u003cbr\u003eThat afternoon he called me at the office from my home. The call was short, civil. We didn’t argue or fight—unlike our usual pattern in even the briefest of exchanges.\u003cbr\u003eBefore hanging up he said, “Anyway, don’t worry.\u003cbr\u003eWhen you get back, I’ll be gone.”\u003cbr\u003eI heard his words as purely informational. But they were a declaration, a metaphorical statement.\u003cbr\u003eThey were his farewell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA mantra is\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003epassed from mouth to mouth. A spontaneous referendum. An unwitting conspiracy. A unanimous vote. A constant plea.\u003cbr\u003eMove.\u003cbr\u003eThat’s what everyone is saying.\u003cbr\u003eMy parents, my sister, my friends, my colleagues, the acquaintances who have heard what happened. Even strangers with whom I come into contact.\u003cbr\u003eMove.\u003cbr\u003eGet away from there.\u003cbr\u003eIn the first few days I’m fragile, very fragile. I don’t even know if I’m still alive.\u003cbr\u003eYet there is an adamant determination inside of me.\u003cbr\u003eNo, I’m not going.\u003cbr\u003eNo one understands. Why would I want to remain in a home that is flooded with memories? Infested with memories. The home where we lived together, where he took his life, where I found his dead body.\u003cbr\u003eSeriously, how can you even think of still living there?\u003cbr\u003eI realize quickly, immediately, that there’s no point in explaining. No one knows what I’m feeling. No one understands these sensations, the black hole into which I’ve fallen. They offer me advice from a higher place, but I am somewhere else.\u003cbr\u003eLike offering a glass of water to a man on fire and acting surprised when he refuses.\u003cbr\u003eI wouldn’t know what to do with your glass of water. Can’t you see that I’m burning? That a palliative is useless, pathetic? Let me burn. Please.\u003cbr\u003eThe elementary prescription they propose is that I take a physical distance: to move away from my memories. They can’t understand that I’m invaded by them. Drenched in them. Even if I moved to China, they’d still be with me. Not even an ocean or a continent between my memories and me would make a difference.\u003cbr\u003eI am my memories. I am my life with him and his absurd death. This awareness is who I am.\u003cbr\u003eMove.\u003cbr\u003eI’m touched by their affection. They offer me advice in this competition whose rules they ignore. Like using an abacus to solve a problem of astrophysics.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhen\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eothers\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003edo\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003enot or cannot understand, the only person you can listen to is yourself.\u003cbr\u003eThe more they urge me to leave that apartment, the firmer my resolve is to stay. How strange, at a time when I feel drained of willpower, of the ability to make a decision, when I defer every possible choice, when I can’t even take responsibility for myself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEat something. Okay. \u003cbr\u003eGet some rest. I will. \u003cbr\u003eMove away. No.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have no\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003ewillpower left, except on this one point. Deep inside I feel that I have to stay. I can tell that the burden of grief (and anguish and loss and . . .) weighing on my shoulders would not be lightened one bit if I changed my address. It’s not a home delivery you can avoid by moving, or a stalker you can shake by running faster. No: Rather than run away, I feel that I have to remain in place and confront it. What else can I do?\u003cbr\u003eAs if grief were a well in which to sink, a tunnel to be traveled in its entirety, until you reach the other side.\u003cbr\u003eThe fact that you can’t see the light at the end, only darkness, doesn’t hinder my awareness that this is the way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI seek comfort\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003ein literature. My lifeboat in the world.\u003cbr\u003eI look in the bookshop, I browse the library (the Internet is still in its early days). There isn’t much on the topic of suicide. Suicidal characters do appear in many novels. But a story dedicated to just that topic? There are, of course, psychological papers and sociological studies: where it happens the most, and why.\u003cbr\u003eThe only material I do find is about the victims, not us survivors.\u003cbr\u003eAnd I am one of them. It is with them that I’d like to begin a conversation, get some help. Why doesn’t anyone write about them?\u003cbr\u003eWhy do they ignore the grief of those left behind?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe day I\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003ego back to the office I try to behave nonchalantly toward my colleagues, even if I am a wreck: There are dark circles under my eyes, a distraught look on my face. I’m losing weight with shocking rapidity. Hard not to notice how dejected I am, for that matter. I don’t even dream of concealing it. Everyone knows what happened, they can’t avoid acknowledging and adapting to it.\u003cbr\u003eThey welcome me back affectionately, with sober but eloquent gestures. Some hug me. Some shake my hand. Some even pat me on the back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI work at\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003ea communications agency. I write ad copy, brochures, catalogues, radio promos, editorial content.\u003cbr\u003eI share my office with a colleague, Tiziana.\u003cbr\u003eOn the first morning I make an effort to resist. Then, at one point, I don’t know why, and there probably is no reason why, I break down and cry.\u003cbr\u003eTizi looks up and sees what is happening. She isn’t quite sure what to do.\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, dear . . . ,” she says. Tears come to her eyes, too, but she holds them back.\u003cbr\u003eShe looks toward the corridor. Someone might walk by and see me.\u003cbr\u003eShe stands up, mercifully, and goes over to close the door. She keeps the spectacle private, chooses to take on the burden herself.\u003cbr\u003e“Go home,” she says, then she rephrases it as a question. “Why don’t you go home? You came back too soon.”\u003cbr\u003eIt’s been one week since the death of S.\u003cbr\u003e“Staying home only makes me feel worse,” I explain, between sobs. “I need to get back to work, to keep my mind busy, otherwise I’ll go nuts.”\u003cbr\u003eShe approaches my chair, and from behind me she places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a slight squeeze. An ordinary gesture of closeness, of affection. Neither she nor I have ever been very demonstrative. We’ve been working together for years and get along quite well as colleagues. We like each other as friends, but neither of us is the kind of person who wears their heart on their sleeve.\u003cbr\u003eWe both realize that if she hugs me now, I’ll never stop crying. But I have to. I dry my tears and swallow the lump in my throat.\u003cbr\u003e“You can open the door back up.” \u003cbr\u003e“Are you sure?”\u003cbr\u003e“I’m not, but open it anyway.”\u003cbr\u003eOur first smile of complicity since the tragedy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI find myself\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003ecompiling a spreadsheet on grief, and not as a figure of speech. Grief really is a system with columns of how much you can bear: I manage to tolerate a certain degree of suffering, but anything more would be too much. It would push me over the edge. Toward madness. I know it can happen. I’ve had proof of it.\u003cbr\u003eSome thoughts are too excruciating to pass the threshold of consciousness. They remain buried beneath the surface, in a prolonged and protected limbo.\u003cbr\u003eEvery so often something comes to the surface: a conversation, an image, a fight, a scene of tenderness. All of which are equally merciless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m in a\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003etram on my way home after a long day at the office. Tired, drained, sitting on a hard, uncomfortable plastic seat, I look at the city bursting with life outside the window. And in that ordinary moment, for no reason, the memory of an argument comes back to me.\u003cbr\u003eS. saying, “Give me another chance,” and me replying, “I’ve already given you a million chances, enough is enough.”\u003cbr\u003eThe last fight the night before he left our home and went back to living with his mother.\u003cbr\u003eI had repressed this exchange but now a sharp, vivid fragment of it returns. Give me another chance. No, enough.\u003cbr\u003eHe had asked me for an extension and I said no. \u003cbr\u003eI’m a monster.\u003cbr\u003eThis awareness invades and shatters me.\u003cbr\u003eS. was asking for help and I said no. I could have saved him and I didn’t. I’m a monster.\u003cbr\u003eI feel like I’m going to lose it. Here, in front of everyone, in a tram packed with people on their way home from work.\u003cbr\u003eHow much farther? A couple of stops. Four, five minutes. Resist. You have to resist.\u003cbr\u003eI stand up. I make my way between the bodies and approach the exit. Let the monster out. I lean against the pole to hold on to something, not to keep my balance. I make it past the first stop. My own is getting closer. Now the tram feels very slow, moving at a snail’s pace. I’m a monster. The last few feet are agonizing. The doors open, I jump out as if the tram were on fire. I walk quickly and break into a run. I want to be home, now, immediately.\u003cbr\u003eI climb the stairs two at a time, insert the key in the lock, and give it a violent twist, hastily, time is running out, I’m almost there. I’m there. I’m inside.\u003cbr\u003eI close the door behind me, slip off my backpack, and throw myself on the floor. I don’t fall, I don’t trip, I let myself drop toward the tiles, let the floor take me into its hard, cold embrace. Out rush the tears that I’ve been holding back for all this time. Ten minutes of struggling to breathe. I’m a monster. Forgive me, S., I’m a monster. Forgive me, world. I’m a monster. I can never be forgiven for what I’ve done. I’m a monster, a monster. Help me, I’m a monster. Somebody please help me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eBefore the funeral\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eI receive flowers and cards.\u003cbr\u003eOne card is from the young couple next door. They’re friends. Every now and then we would have dinner together. S. used to walk their dog; sometimes he would play with it on the balcony.\u003cbr\u003eThe card is simple, a single line, addressed not to me but directly to S. Which is probably right. As if I were only the go-between.\u003cbr\u003eIt says: “We will miss you so much.”\u003cbr\u003eThree signatures follow: Lori, Mario, and Camillo. \u003cbr\u003eCamillo is the dog.\u003cbr\u003eI don’t know why, but this card touches me more than all the others.","brand":"Other Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301059252453,"sku":"NP9781635424522","price":17.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781635424522_92b10e17-a2d2-4880-b8ce-41eb312d7e06.jpg?v=1767740235","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-life-of-those-left-behind-isbn-9781635424522","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}