{"product_id":"the-skin-isbn-9781590176221","title":"The Skin","description":"This is the first unexpurgated English edition of Curzio Malaparte’s legendary work \u003ci\u003eThe Skin\u003c\/i\u003e. The book begins in 1943, with Allied forces cementing their grip on the devastated city of Naples. The sometime Fascist and ever-resourceful Curzio Malaparte is working with the Americans as a liaison officer. He looks after Colonel Jack Hamilton, “a Christian gentleman . . . an American in the noblest sense of the word,” who speaks French and cites the classics and holds his nose as the two men tour the squalid streets of a city in ruins where liberation is only another word for desperation. Veterans of the disbanded Italian army beg for work. A rare specimen from the city’s famous aquarium is served up at a ceremonial dinner for high Allied officers. Prostitution is rampant. The smell of death is everywhere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSubtle, cynical, evasive, manipulative, unnerving, always astonishing, Malaparte is a supreme artist of the unreliable, both the product and the prophet of a world gone rotten to the core.“An embodiment of Europe’s bad conscience, Malaparte’s voice was one that right-thinking people of every denomination preferred not to hear. That is why this difficult book was so hated and condemned when it first appeared, and remains so well worth reading.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New Statesman\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The sordid underclass of the town possess a lust for life and a will to live, and the unbearable becomes bearable - even magnified - for the reader in this beautiful homage to his hometown which Malaparte tinges with the absurd and black humor.” —\u003ci\u003eVogue\u003c\/i\u003e Paris \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In \u003ci\u003eThe Skin\u003c\/i\u003e the war is not yet over, but its conclusion is already decided. The bombs are still falling, but falling now on a different Europe. Yesterday no one had to ask who was the executioner and who the victim. Now, suddenly, good and evil have veiled their faces; the new world is still barely known . . . the person telling the tale is sure of only one thing: he is certain he can be certain of nothing. His ignorance becomes wisdom.” —Milan Kundera\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Malaparte enlarged the art of fiction in more perverse, inventive and darkly liberating ways than one would imagine possible, long before novelists like Philip Roth, Robert Coover, and E. L. Doctorow began using their own and other people’s histories as Play-Doh.” —Gary Indiana\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Surreal, disenchanted, on the edge of amoral, Malaparte broke literary ground for writers from Ryszard Kapuscinski to Joseph Heller.” —Frederika Randall, \u003ci\u003eWall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A skilled guide to the lowest depths of Europe’s inferno.” —Adrian Lyttelton, \u003ci\u003eThe Times Literary Supplement \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A scrupulous reporter? Probably not. One of the most remarkable writers of the 20th century? Certainly.” \u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eIan Buruma\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMalaparte enlarged the art of fiction in more perverse, inventive and darkly liberating ways than one would imagine possible, long before novelists like Philip Roth, Robert Coover, and E. L. Doctorow began using their own and other people’s histories as Play-Doh.\u003cbr\u003e—Gary Indiana\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCynical, repetitive prose carefully suspended between disgust and delight, Malaparte details the indignities the invading army inflicts on Italy.\u003cbr\u003e—Joshua Craze, \u003ci\u003eAsymptote Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“This is a truly horrifying book. It is also unforgettable.”— Adam Tooze’s Substack\u003cb\u003eCurzio Malaparte\u003c\/b\u003e (pseudonym of Kurt Eric Suckert, 1898–1957) was born in Prato, Italy, and served in World War I. An early supporter of the Italian Fascist movement and a prolific journalist, Malaparte soon established himself as an outspoken public figure. In 1931 he incurred Mussolini’s displeasure by publishing a how-to manual entitled \u003ci\u003eTechnique of the Coup-d’Etat\u003c\/i\u003e, which led to his arrest and a brief term in prison. During World War II Malaparte worked as a correspondent, for much of the time on the eastern front, and this experience provided the basis for his two most famous books, \u003ci\u003eKaputt\u003c\/i\u003e (1944; available as an NYRB classic) and \u003ci\u003eThe Skin\u003c\/i\u003e (1949). His political sympathies veered to the left after the war. He continued to write, while also involving himself in the theater and the cinema.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eDavid Moore\u003c\/b\u003e’s translations include Flora Volpini’s \u003ci\u003eThe Women of Florence\u003c\/i\u003e, Dino Alfieri’s \u003ci\u003eDictators Face to Face\u003c\/i\u003e, and Malaparte’s \u003ci\u003eThe Volga Rises in Europe\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eRachel Kushner\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of the novels \u003ci\u003eThe Flamethrowers \u003c\/i\u003e(2013) and \u003ci\u003eTelex from Cuba \u003c\/i\u003e(2008), which was a finalist for the National Book Award and a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Notable Book. Her fiction and essays have appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Paris Review\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Believer\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eArtforum\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eBookforum\u003c\/i\u003e. She is a 2013 Guggenheim Fellow.CHAPTER I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Plague\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNaples was in the throes of the 'plague'. Every afternoon at five\u003cbr\u003eo'clock, after half an hour with the punch-ball and a hot shower in\u003cbr\u003ethe gymnasium of the PBS - Peninsular Base Section - Colonel Jack\u003cbr\u003eHamilton and I would walk down in the direction of San Ferdinando,\u003cbr\u003eelbowing our way through the unruly mob which thronged Via Toledo\u003cbr\u003efrom dawn until curfew-time.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWe were clean, tidy and well fed, Jack and I, as we made our way\u003cbr\u003ethrough the midst of the dreadful Neapolitan mob - squalid, dirty,\u003cbr\u003estarving, ragged, jostled and insulted in all the languages and dialects\u003cbr\u003eof the world by troops of soldiers belonging to the Armies of Liberation,\u003cbr\u003ewhich were drawn from all the races of the earth. The distinction\u003cbr\u003eof being the first among all the peoples of Europe to be liberated\u003cbr\u003ehad fallen to the people of Naples; and in celebration of the winning\u003cbr\u003eof so well-deserved a prize my poor beloved Neapolitans, after three\u003cbr\u003eyears of hunger, epidemics and savage air attacks, had accepted gracefully\u003cbr\u003eand patriotically the longed-for and coveted honour of playing\u003cbr\u003ethe part of a conquered people, of singing, clapping, jumping for joy\u003cbr\u003eamid the ruins of their houses, unfurling foreign flags which until the\u003cbr\u003eday before had been the emblems of their foes, and throwing flowers\u003cbr\u003efrom their windows on to the heads of the conquerors.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut in spite of the universal and genuine enthusiasm there was not\u003cbr\u003ea single man or woman in the whole of Naples who was conscious of\u003cbr\u003ehaving been defeated. I cannot say how this strange feeling had arisen\u003cbr\u003ein the people's breasts. It was an undoubted fact that Italy, and hence\u003cbr\u003ealso Naples, had lost the war. It is certainly much harder to lose a\u003cbr\u003ewar than to win it. While everyone is good at winning a war, not all\u003cbr\u003eare capable of losing one. But the loss of a war does not in itself\u003cbr\u003eentitle a people to regard itself as conquered. In their ancient wisdom,\u003cbr\u003eenriched by the doleful experience of many hundreds of years, and\u003cbr\u003ein their sincere modesty, my poor beloved Neapolitans did not\u003cbr\u003epresume to regard themselves as a conquered people. In this they\u003cbr\u003eundoubtedly revealed a grave lack of tact. But could the Allies claim\u003cbr\u003eto liberate peoples and at the same time compel them to regard\u003cbr\u003ethemselves as conquered? They must be either free or conquered. It\u003cbr\u003ewould be unjust to blame the people of Naples if they regarded\u003cbr\u003ethemselves as neither free nor conquered.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAs I walked beside Colonel Hamilton I felt incredibly ridiculous in\u003cbr\u003emy British uniform. The uniforms of the Italian Corps of Liberation\u003cbr\u003ewere old British khaki uniforms, handed over by the British Command\u003cbr\u003eto Marshal Badoglio and - perhaps in an attempt to hide the bloodstains\u003cbr\u003eand bullet-holes - dyed dark green, the colour of a lizard. They\u003cbr\u003ewere, as a matter of fact, uniforms taken from the British soldiers\u003cbr\u003ewho had fallen at EI Alamein and Tobruk. In my tunic three holes\u003cbr\u003emade by machine-gun bullets were visible. My vest, shirt and pants\u003cbr\u003ewere stained with blood. Even my shoes had been taken from the\u003cbr\u003ebody of a British soldier. The first time I had put them on I had felt ·\u003cbr\u003esomething pricking the sole of my foot. 1 had thought at first that a\u003cbr\u003etiny bone belonging to the dead man had remained stuck in the shoe.\u003cbr\u003eIt was a nail. It would have been better, perhaps, if it really had been\u003cbr\u003ea bone from the dead man: it would have been much easier for me\u003cbr\u003eto remove it. It took me half an hour to find a pair of pliers and\u003cbr\u003eremove the nail. There was no gainsaying it: that stupid war had\u003cbr\u003ecertainly ended well for us. It certainly could not have ended better.\u003cbr\u003eOur \u003ci\u003eamour propre \u003c\/i\u003eas defeated soldiers was undamaged. Now we were\u003cbr\u003efighting at the side of the Allies, trying to help them win their war\u003cbr\u003eafter we had lost our own. Hence it was natural that we should be\u003cbr\u003ewearing the uniforms of the Allied soldiers whom we had killed.\u003cbr\u003eWhen I at last succeeded in removing the nail and putting on my\u003cbr\u003eshoe I found that the company of which I was to assume command\u003cbr\u003ehad been assembled for some time past on the barrack-square. The\u003cbr\u003ebarracks consisted of an ancient monastery, which had been reduced\u003cbr\u003eby time and the air bombardments to a state of ruin. It was situated\u003cbr\u003ein the vicinity of La Torretta, behind Mergellina. The 'square' was a\u003cbr\u003ecloistered courtyard, bounded on three sides by a portico, which rested\u003cbr\u003eon slender columns of grey tufa, and on the fourth by a high yellow\u003cbr\u003ewall, dotted with specks of green mould and great slabs of marble, on\u003cbr\u003ewhich were carved long lists of names, surmounted by great black\u003cbr\u003ecrosses. During some cholera epidemic of centuries before the monastery\u003cbr\u003ehad been used as a hospital, and the names referred to those\u003cbr\u003ewho had died of the disease. On the wall was written in large black\u003cbr\u003eletters: \u003ci\u003eRequiescant in pace\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eColonel Palese had been anxious to introduce me to my soldiers\u003cbr\u003ehimself, in one of those simple ceremonies of which old military men\u003cbr\u003eare so fond. He was a tall, thin man, with completely white hair. He\u003cbr\u003eclasped my hand in silence and smiled, sighing dolefully as he did so.\u003cbr\u003eThe soldiers were nearly all very young. They had fought well against\u003cbr\u003ethe Allies in Africa and Sicily, and for this reason the Allies had\u003cbr\u003echosen them to form the first cadre of the Italian Corps of Liberation.\u003cbr\u003eLined up before us in the .middle of the courtyard, they eyed me with\u003cbr\u003ea fixed stare. They too were wearing uniforms taken from British\u003cbr\u003esoldiers who had fallen at EI Alamein and Tobruk, and their shoes\u003cbr\u003ewere dead men's shoes. Their faces were pale and emaciated; their\u003cbr\u003eeyes, which were white and steady, consisted of a moist, opaque\u003cbr\u003esubstance. They seemed to gaze at me without blinking.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eColonel Palese nodded his head, and the sergeant shouted:\u003cbr\u003e'Company - 'shun.' The soldiers riveted their gaze upon me; it was\u003cbr\u003esorrowful and intense, like the gaze of a dead cat. Their limbs became\u003cbr\u003erigid and they sprang to attention. The hands that grasped their rifles\u003cbr\u003ewere white and bloodless. The flabby skin hung from the tips of their\u003cbr\u003efingers like a glove that is too big.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eColonel Palese began to speak. 'Here is your new commanding\u003cbr\u003eofficer,' he said, and while he spoke I looked at those Italian soldiers\u003cbr\u003ewith their uniforms that had been taken from British corpses, their\u003cbr\u003ebloodless hands, their pale lips and white eyes. Here and there on\u003cbr\u003etheir chests, stomachs and legs were black spots of blood. Suddenly\u003cbr\u003eI realized to my horror that these soldiers were dead. They gave out\u003cbr\u003ea faint odour of musty cloth, rotten leather, and flesh that had been\u003cbr\u003edried up by the sun. I looked at Colonel Palese, and he was dead too.\u003cbr\u003eThe voice that proceeded from his lips was watery, cold, glutinous,\u003cbr\u003elike the horrible gurgling that issues from a dead man's mouth if you\u003cbr\u003erest your hand on his stomach.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Tell them to stand at ease,' said Colonel Palese to the sergeant\u003cbr\u003ewhen he had ended his brief address. 'Company, stand at - ease!'\u003cbr\u003ecried the sergeant. The soldiers flopped down on to their left heels\u003cbr\u003ein limp and weary attitudes and stared at me fixedly, with a softer,\u003cbr\u003emore distant look. 'And now,' said Colonel Palese, 'your new\u003cbr\u003ecommanding officer will say a few words to you.' I opened my mouth\u003cbr\u003eand a horrible gurgling sound came out; my words were muffled,\u003cbr\u003ethick, flaccid. I said: 'We are the volunteers of Freedom, the soldiers\u003cbr\u003eof the new Italy. It is our duty to fight the Germans, to drive them\u003cbr\u003eout of our homeland, to throw them back beyond our frontiers. The\u003cbr\u003eeyes of all Italians are fixed upon us. It is our duty once more to hoist\u003cbr\u003ethe flag that has fallen in the mire, to set an example to all in the\u003cbr\u003emidst of so much shame, to show ourselves worthy of the present\u003cbr\u003ehour, of the task that our country entrusts to us.' When I had finished\u003cbr\u003espeaking Colonel Palese said to the soldiers: 'Now one of you will\u003cbr\u003erepeat what your commanding officer has said. I want to be sure you\u003cbr\u003eunderstand. You!' he said, pointing to a soldier. 'Repeat what your\u003cbr\u003ecommanding officer said.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe soldier looked at me; he was pale, he had the thin, bloodless\u003cbr\u003elips of a dead man. Slowly, in a dreadful gurgling voice, he said: 'It\u003cbr\u003eis our duty to show ourselves worthy of the shame of Italy.'\u003cbr\u003eColonel Palese came up close to me. 'They understand,' he said in\u003cbr\u003ea low voice, and moved silently away. Under his left armpit was a\u003cbr\u003eblack spot of blood which gradually spread over the material of his\u003cbr\u003euniform. I watched that black spot of blood as it gradually spread, my\u003cbr\u003eeyes followed the old Italian colonel, with his uniform that had\u003cbr\u003ebelonged to an Englishman now dead, I watched him slowly move\u003cbr\u003eaway and heard the squeaking of his shoes, the shoes of a dead British\u003cbr\u003esoldier, and the name of Italy stank in my nostrils like a piece of\u003cbr\u003erotten meat.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'This bastard people!' said Colonel Hamilton between his teeth\u003cbr\u003eforcing his way through the crowd. '\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Why do you say that, Jack?'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHaving reached the top of the Augusteo we used to turn off each\u003cbr\u003eday into Via Santa Brigida, where the crowd was thinner, and pause\u003cbr\u003ea moment to regain our breath.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'This bastard people,' said Jack, straightening his uniform, which\u003cbr\u003ehad been rumpled by the terrible pressure of the crowd.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Don't say that, Jack.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Why not? This bastard, dirty people.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Oh, Jack! I am a bastard and a dirty Italian too. But I am proud\u003cbr\u003eof being a dirty Italian. It isn't our fault if we weren't born in America.\u003cbr\u003eI am sure we should be a bastard, dirty people even if we had been\u003cbr\u003eborn in America. Don't you think so, Jack?'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Don't worry, Malaparte,' said Jack. 'Don't take it to heart. Life is\u003cbr\u003ewonderful.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Yes, life is a splendid thing, Jack, I know. But don't say that.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Sorry,' said Jack, patting me on the shoulder. 'I didn't mean to\u003cbr\u003eoffend you. It's a figure of speech. I like Italians. I like this bastard,\u003cbr\u003edirty, wonderful people.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'I know, Jack - I know you like this poor, unhappy, wonderful\u003cbr\u003epeople. No people on earth has ever endured as much as the people\u003cbr\u003eof Naples. They have endured hunger and slavery for two thousand\u003cbr\u003eyears, and they don't complain. They revile no one, they hate no one\u003cbr\u003e- not even their own misery. Christ was a Neapolitan.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e'Don't talk nonsense,' said Jack.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'It isn't nonsense. Christ was a Neapolitan.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'What's the matter with you today, Malaparte?' said Jack, looking\u003cbr\u003eat me with his fine eyes.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e‘Nothing. What do you suppose is the matter with me?'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'You're in a black mood,' said Jack.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Why should I be in a bad mood?'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'I know you, Malaparte. You're in a black mood today.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'I am sad about Cassino, Jack.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'To hell with Cassino.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'I am sad, truly sad, about what is happening at Cassino.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'To hell with you,' said Jack.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'It really is a shame that you're bringing such misery to Cassino.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Shut up, Malaparte.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you, Jack. I like Americans. I like\u003cbr\u003ethe pure, the clean, the wonderful American people.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'I know, Malaparte. I know you like Americans. But take it easy,\u003cbr\u003eMalaparte. Life is wonderful.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'To hell with Cassino, Jack.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Oh, yes. To hell with Naples, Malaparte.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThere was a strange smell in the air. It was not the smell that\u003cbr\u003ecomes down at eventide from the alleys of Toledo and from the Piazza\u003cbr\u003edelle Carrette and Santa Teresella degli Spagnoli. It was not the smell\u003cbr\u003efrom the fried-fish shops, taverns and urinals nestling in the dark and\u003cbr\u003efetid alleys of the \u003ci\u003eQuarrieri \u003c\/i\u003ethat stretch from Via Toledo up towards\u003cbr\u003eSan Martino. It was not that nauseating, stuffy, glutinous smell,\u003cbr\u003ecomposed of a thousand effluvia, a thousand noisome exhalations -\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003emille delicates puanteurs, \u003c\/i\u003eas Jack put it - which at certain times of day\u003cbr\u003epervades the city and emanates from the withered flowers that lie in\u003cbr\u003eheaps at the feet of the Madonnas in the chapels at the corners of\u003cbr\u003ethe alleys. It was not the smell of the sirocco, which smacks of bad\u003cbr\u003efish and of the cheese that is made from sheep's milk. It was not even\u003cbr\u003ethat smell of cooked meat which towards evening spreads over Naples\u003cbr\u003efrom the brothels - that smell in which Jean-Paul Sartre, walking one\u003cbr\u003eday along Via Toledo, \u003ci\u003esombre comme une aisselle, pleine d'une ombre\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003echaude vaguement obscene, \u003c\/i\u003edetected the \u003ci\u003eparente immonde de I'amour et de\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\/a nourriture. \u003c\/i\u003eNo, it was not that smell of cooked meat which broods\u003cbr\u003eover Naples towards sunset, when \u003ci\u003ela chair des femmes a l'air bouillie\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003esous la crasse. \u003c\/i\u003eIt was an extraordinarily pure, delicate smell, dry, light,\u003cbr\u003eunsubstantial - the smell of brine, the salt tang of the night air, ·the\u003cbr\u003esmell of an ancient forest from the trees of which paper is made.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eParties of dishevelled, painted women, followed by crowds of negro\u003cbr\u003esoldiers with pale hands, were parading up and down Via Toledo,\u003cbr\u003ecleaving the air above the thronged street with shrill cries of 'Hi, Joe!\u003cbr\u003eHi, Joe!' At the entrances to the alleys loitered the public hairdressers,\u003cbr\u003ethe \u003ci\u003ecapere. \u003c\/i\u003eThey formed long lines, and each stood behind a seat. On\u003cbr\u003ethe seat, their eyes closed and their heads lolling against the backs or\u003cbr\u003esunk upon their breasts, sat athletic negroes with small round skulls\u003cbr\u003eand yellow shoes that shone like the feet of the gilded statues of the\u003cbr\u003eAngels in the church of Santa Chiara. Yelling and calling to one\u003cbr\u003eanother with strange guttural cries, singing, or arguing at the top of\u003cbr\u003etheir voices with their neighbours, who looked down from the windows\u003cbr\u003eand balconies as though from boxes at the theatre, the \u003ci\u003ecapere \u003c\/i\u003esank\u003cbr\u003etheir combs into the negroes' curly, woolly hair, drew them towards\u003cbr\u003ethem with both hands, spat on the teeth to reduce the friction, poured\u003cbr\u003erivers of brilliantine into the palms of their hands, and rubbed and\u003cbr\u003esmoothed the patients' wild locks like \u003ci\u003emasseuses.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBands of ragged boys knelt before their little wooden boxes, which\u003cbr\u003ewere plastered with flakes of mother of pearl, sea-shells and fragments\u003cbr\u003eof mirrors, and beat the lids with the backs of their brushes, crying\u003cbr\u003e'Shoeshine! Shoeshine!' Meanwhile, with bony, eager hands, they\u003cbr\u003egrabbed the negro soldiers by the edge of the trousers as they went\u003cbr\u003epast, swaying their hips. Groups of Moroccan soldiers squatted along\u003cbr\u003ethe walls, enveloped in their dark robes, their faces riddled with pockmarks,\u003cbr\u003etheir yellow, deep-set eyes shining from dark, wrinkled sockets,\u003cbr\u003einhaling through quivering nostrils the dry odour that permeated the\u003cbr\u003edusty air.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFaded women, with livid faces and painted lips, their emaciated\u003cbr\u003echeeks plastered with rouge - a dreadful and piteous sight - loitered\u003cbr\u003eat the comers of the alleys, offering to the passers-by their sorry\u003cbr\u003emerchandise. This consisted of boys and girls of eight or ten, whom\u003cbr\u003ethe soldiers - Moroccans, Indians, Algerians, Madagascans - caressed\u003cbr\u003ewith their fingers, slipping their hands between the buttons of their\u003cbr\u003eshort trousers or lifting their dresses. 'Two dollars the boys three\u003cbr\u003edollars the girls!' shouted the women. '\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Tell me frankly - would you like a little girl at three dollars?' I\u003cbr\u003esaid to Jack.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Shut up, Malaparte.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'After all, it's not much, three dollars for a little girl. Two pounds\u003cbr\u003eof lamb cost far more. I'm sure a little girl costs more in London or\u003cbr\u003eNew York than here - isn't that so, Jack?'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Tu me degoutes,' said Jack.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Three dollars is barely three hundred lire. How much can a little\u003cbr\u003egirl of eight or ten weigh? Fifty pounds? Remember that on the black\u003cbr\u003emarket two pounds of lamb cost five hundred and fifty lire, in other\u003cbr\u003ewords five dollars and fifty cents.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Shut up!' cried Jack.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eDuring the last few days the prices of girls and boys had dropped,\u003cbr\u003eand they were still falling. Whereas the prices of sugar, oil, flour, meat\u003cbr\u003eand bread had risen and were still on the increase, the price of human\u003cbr\u003eflesh was slumping from day to day. A girl between twenty and twenty-five\u003cbr\u003eyears of age, who a week before was worth up to ten dollars, was\u003cbr\u003enow worth barely four dollars, bones included. This fall in the price\u003cbr\u003eof human flesh on the Neapolitan market may have been due to the\u003cbr\u003efact that women were flocking to Naples from all parts of Southern\u003cbr\u003eItaly. During recent weeks the wholesalers had thrown on to the\u003cbr\u003emarket a large consignment of Sicilian women. It was not all fresh\u003cbr\u003emeat, but the speculators knew that negro soldiers have refined tastes,\u003cbr\u003eand prefer meat not to be too fresh. Yet Sicilian meat was not in great\u003cbr\u003edemand, and even the negroes refused it in the end: negroes don't\u003cbr\u003elike white women to be too dark. Every day there arrived in Naples,\u003cbr\u003eon carts drawn by wretched little donkeys or in Allied vehicles, but\u003cbr\u003emostly on foot, parties of sturdily built, robust girls, nearly all of\u003cbr\u003ethem peasants, attracted by the mirage of gold. They came from the\u003cbr\u003eCalabrias the Apulias, the Basilicata and Molise. And so the price of\u003cbr\u003ehuman flesh on the Neapolitan market had been crashing, and it was\u003cbr\u003efeared that this might have a serious effect on the whole economy of\u003cbr\u003ethe city. (Nothing of the kind had ever been seen in Naples before.\u003cbr\u003eIt was certainly a disgrace, and the vast majority of the good people\u003cbr\u003eof Naples blushed with shame because of it. But why did it not bring\u003cbr\u003ea blush to the cheeks of the Allied authorities, who were the masters\u003cbr\u003eof Naples?) In compensation, negroes' flesh had risen in price, and\u003cbr\u003ethis, luckily, was helping to re-establish a certain equilibrium on the\u003cbr\u003emarket.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'What does negroes' flesh cost today?' I asked Jack.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Shut up,' he answered.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Is it true that the flesh of a black American costs more than that\u003cbr\u003eof a white American?'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Tu m'agaces,' answered Jack.\u003cbr\u003eI certainly had no intention of offending him, nor of poking fun at\u003cbr\u003ehim, nor even of being disrespectful to the American Army - the\u003cbr\u003eloveliest, the kindest, the most respectable Army in the world. What\u003cbr\u003edid it matter to me if the flesh of a black American cost more than\u003cbr\u003ethat of a white American? I like Americans, whatever the colour of\u003cbr\u003etheir skin, and I proved it a hundred times during the war. White or\u003cbr\u003eblack, their souls are pure, much purer than ours. I like the Americans\u003cbr\u003ebecause they are good and sincere Christians; because they believe\u003cbr\u003ethat Christ is always on the side of those who are in the right; because\u003cbr\u003ethey believe that it is a sin to be in the wrong, that it is immoral to\u003cbr\u003ebe in the wrong; because they believe that they alone are honourable\u003cbr\u003emen, and that all the nations of Europe are more or less dishonest;\u003cbr\u003ebecause they believe that a conquered nation is a nation of criminals,\u003cbr\u003ethat defeat is a moral stigma, an expression of divine justice.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI like Americans for these reasons, and for many others that I have\u003cbr\u003enot mentioned. In that terrible autumn of 1943, which brought so\u003cbr\u003emuch humiliation and grief to my fellow-countrymen, the Americans'\u003cbr\u003ehumanity and generosity, the pure and honest simplicity of their ideas\u003cbr\u003eand sentiments, and the genuineness of their behaviour, instilled in\u003cbr\u003eme the illusion that men hate evil, the hope that humanity would\u003cbr\u003emend its ways, and the conviction that only goodness - the goodness\u003cbr\u003eand innocence of those splendid boys from across the Atlantic, who\u003cbr\u003ehad landed in Europe to punish the wicked and reward the good -\u003cbr\u003ecould redeem nations and individuals from their sins.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut of all my American friends the dearest was Staff Colonel Jack\u003cbr\u003eHamilton. Jack was a man of thirty-eight - tall, thin, pale and elegant,\u003cbr\u003ewith gentlemanly, almost European manners. On first acquaintance,\u003cbr\u003eperhaps, he seemed more European than American, but this was not\u003cbr\u003ethe reason why I loved him: and I loved him like a brother. For\u003cbr\u003egradually, as I got to know him intimately, he showed himself to be\u003cbr\u003eintensely and indisputably American. He had been born in South\u003cbr\u003eCarolina ('My nurse,' he used to say, 'was \u003ci\u003eune negresse par un demon\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eseeouee'), \u003c\/i\u003ebut he was not merely what is known in America as a\u003cbr\u003eSoutherner. Intellectually he was a man of culture and refinement,\u003cbr\u003eand at the same time there was about him an almost childlike simplicity\u003cbr\u003eand innocence. What I mean is that he was an American in the noblest\u003cbr\u003esense of the word - one of the most admirable men I have ever met.\u003cbr\u003eHe was a 'Christian gentleman'. How hard it is for me to express\u003cbr\u003ewhat I mean by the term 'Christian gentleman\" All who know and\u003cbr\u003elove the Americans will understand what I mean when I say that the\u003cbr\u003eAmerican nation is a Christian nation, and that Jack was a Christian\u003cbr\u003egentleman.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eEducated at Woodberry Forest School and at Virginia University,\u003cbr\u003eJack had devoted himself with equal enthusiasm to Latin, Greek and\u003cbr\u003esport, putting himself with equal confidence in the hands of Horace,\u003cbr\u003eVirgil, Simonides and Xenophon and in those of the \u003ci\u003emasseurs \u003c\/i\u003eof the\u003cbr\u003eUniversity gymnasiums. In 1928 he had been a sprinter in the American\u003cbr\u003eOlympic Track Team at Amsterdam, and he was prouder of his\u003cbr\u003eOlympic victories than of his academic honours. After 1929 he had\u003cbr\u003espent some years in Paris as a representative of the United Press, and\u003cbr\u003ehe was proud of his well-nigh perfect French. 'I learned French from\u003cbr\u003ethe classics,' he used to say. 'My French tutors were La Fontaine and\u003cbr\u003eMadame Bonnet, the caretaker of the house in which I lived in rue\u003cbr\u003eVaugirard. Tu ne trouves pas que je parle comme les animaux de La\u003cbr\u003eFontaine? It was he who taught me \u003ci\u003equ 'un chien peut bien regarder un\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eEveque.'\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e'And you came to Europe,' I would say to him, 'to learn that? \u003ci\u003eUn\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003echien peut bien regarder un Eveque \u003c\/i\u003ein America as well.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e'Oh non,' Jack would reply, 'en Amerique ce sont les Eveques qui\u003cbr\u003epeuvent regarder les chiens.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJack was also well acquainted with what he called \u003ci\u003efa banlieue de\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eParis, \u003c\/i\u003ein other words Europe. He had journeyed through Switzerland,\u003cbr\u003eBelgium, Germany and Sweden in the same spirit of humanism and\u003cbr\u003ewith the same thirst for knowledge as the English undergraduates\u003cbr\u003ewho, before Dr Arnold's reform, used to journey across Europe during\u003cbr\u003etheir summer Grand Tour. After his travels Jack had returned to\u003cbr\u003eAmerica with the manuscripts of an essay on the spirit of European\u003cbr\u003ecivilization and of a thesis on Descartes, which had earned him an\u003cbr\u003eappointment as Professor of Literature in a great American university.\u003cbr\u003eBut academic laurels do not flourish on an athlete's brow as Olympic\u003cbr\u003elaurels do; and Jack could not get over the fact that a muscular strain\u003cbr\u003ein the knee prevented him from running again in the international\u003cbr\u003econtests for the honour of the Stars and Stripes. In\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003ean attempt to\u003cbr\u003eforget his misfortune Jack would repair to the changing-room of\u003cbr\u003ethe University gymnasium and read his adored Virgil or his beloved\u003cbr\u003eXenophon, surrounded by that odour of rubber, soaking towels, soap\u003cbr\u003eand linoleum which is peculiarly associated with classical culture in\u003cbr\u003ethe universities of the Anglo-Saxon countries.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOne morning I came upon him unawares in the changing-room -\u003cbr\u003edeserted at that hour - of the Peninsular Base Section's gymnasium,\u003cbr\u003edeeply engrossed in Pindar. He looked at me and smiled, colouring\u003cbr\u003eslightly. He asked me if I liked Pindar's poetry, adding that the\u003cbr\u003ePindaric odes written in honour of the athletes who had triumphed\u003cbr\u003eat Olympia do not convey any idea of the long, hard drudgery of\u003cbr\u003etraining, that those divine verses resound with the yells of the crowd\u003cbr\u003eand the triumphal applause, not with the hoarse whistling and the\u003cbr\u003erasping sound that comes from the mouths of athletes when they\u003cbr\u003emake their last terrible effort. 'I know all about it,' he said, 'I know\u003cbr\u003ewhat the last twenty yards are. Pindar is not a modem poet. He is an\u003cbr\u003eEnglish poet of the Victorian era.'\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAlthough he preferred Horace and Virgil to all other poets because\u003cbr\u003eof their serene melancholy, Greek poetry and ancient Greece filled\u003cbr\u003ehim with a sense of gratitude - not the gratitude of a scholar, but that\u003cbr\u003eof a son. He knew by heart whole books of the \u003ci\u003eIliad, \u003c\/i\u003eand tears would\u003cbr\u003ecome into his eyes when he declaimed, in Greek, the hexameters on\u003cbr\u003ethe 'funeral Games in honour of Patroclus'. One day, as we sat on\u003cbr\u003ethe bank of the Voltumo, near the Bailey bridge at Capua, waiting\u003cbr\u003efor the sergeant guarding the bridge to give us the signal to cross we\u003cbr\u003ediscussed Winckelmann and the concept of beauty among the andient\u003cbr\u003eHellenes. I remember Jack's telling me that the gloomy, unreal,\u003cbr\u003emysterious imagery of ancient Greece, so raw and barbaric, or, as he\u003cbr\u003eput it, Gothic, appealed to him less than the joyful, harmonious, clear\u003cbr\u003eimagery of Hellenistic Greece, which was so young, vivacious and\u003cbr\u003emodem, and which he described as a French Greece, a Greece of\u003cbr\u003ethe eighteenth century. And when I asked him what, in his opinion,\u003cbr\u003ewas the American Greece, he replied with a laugh: 'The Greece of\u003cbr\u003eXenophon'; and, still laughing, began to paint a remarkable and witty\u003cbr\u003epicture of Xenophon - 'a Virginian gentleman' -which was a disguised\u003cbr\u003esatire, in the style of Dr Johnson, of certain Hellenists of the Boston\u003cbr\u003eschool.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJack had an indulgent and mischievous contempt for the Hellenists\u003cbr\u003eof Boston. One morning I found him sitting under a tree with a book\u003cbr\u003eon his knees, near a heavy battery facing Cassino. It was during the\u003cbr\u003esad days of the Battle of Cassino. It was raining - for a fortnight it\u003cbr\u003ehad been doing nothing but rain. Columns of lorries laden with\u003cbr\u003eAmerican soldiers, sewn up in white sheets of coarse linen cloth, were\u003cbr\u003egoing down in the direction of the little military cemeteries which\u003cbr\u003ewere to be seen here and there beside the Via Appia and the Via\u003cbr\u003eCasilina. To keep the rain off the pages of his book - an eighteenth-century\u003cbr\u003eanthology of Greek poetry with a soft leather binding and gilt\u003cbr\u003eedges, presented to him by the worthy Gaspare Casella the famous\u003cbr\u003eantiquarian bookseller of Naples and a friend of Anatole France -\u003cbr\u003eJack was sitting with his body bent forward, covering the precious\u003cbr\u003ebook with his mackintosh.","brand":"NYRB Classics","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302049665253,"sku":"NP9781590176221","price":19.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781590176221.jpg?v=1767741540","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-skin-isbn-9781590176221","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}