THE WOMEN I LOVE

Italian writer Pacifico's new novel is a disconcerting mix: part sendup of toxic masculinity, part middle-aged cad's apologia.

Marcello is a classic man-child. Scion of a wealthy family that continues to support him, he's a poet and editor in his 30s who, feeling stuck, decides to make his mark with a memoir/novel about the women in his life: Eleonora, his fellow editor, protégé, and lover; his live-in girlfriend (and later wife), Barbara; his sister, estranged from her parents since she came out years ago; and his mother. The novel's real interest lies in the fact that he is not at all up to the job, at least initially. The portraits that emerge in the book's first half are mostly erotic self-portraits, the callow Marcello glimpsed sidelong in a mirror. The women he loves, it seems, are shape-shifters, elusive, complex, sybil-like figures who refuse to sit still and allow themselves, in the metaphor Marcello borrows from Nabokov, to be butterflies whose beauty is celebrated by getting pinned to a specimen board. The vain, bewildered Marcello seems at first like a man out of time, trying to replicate 1950s manhood (or the swaggering machismo of canonical male writers of the time) in a world that can no longer sustain it—and that he knows can no longer sustain it. But gradually, as he gets more accustomed to his limitations as man and as artist, as he reflects on the ways men have tried to capture or subdue or simplify women in their portraits, he relaxes, starts to pay attention. And once he's sufficiently chastened and self-conscious enough to give up on the ideal of master portraitist, the women emerge more sharply and in greater detail.

A novel about the male gaze...and about what happens when its power has begun to dim.