Drawing heavily on author Giorgio Bassani’s own life, the gamma ebreo narrator of this book ineptly pursues the daughter of the richest Jew in Ferrara, Italy during the years just prior to World War Two, 1938 in particular (the significance of which I’ll return in a moment). His anaemic quest is blench inducing, and the object of his unrequited love, Micòl Finzi-Contini, provides a master class in friend zoning. Red pilled readers will work out the sting in the tail early on; the less perspicacious will need to wait until the last few pages. (I won’t spoil it for the socio-sexually discombobulated.)
What made this novel famous is that our gamma Jew’s pursuit of love transpires in 1938 Italy; i.e., under Mussolini and the Partito Nazionale Fascista. Despite the blub claiming it “re-creates a tragic era in history,” there’s very little in the way of tragedy (unless you deem a manlet’s miserable stab at wooing a shit testing wench calamitous). But the Jewish experience under fascism does emerge in the background occasionally. The city bans Jews from tennis clubs (which is why so much of the novel centres on wearing whites and hitting a ball around at the Finzi-Continis), a university denies Micòl cum laude for her thesis; that kind of thing. Despite this, life goes on behind the wall as though the Italian Racial Laws were never promulgated. You see, the garden is a metaphor.
There’s probably something here for contemptible libtards, squalid antifas, and journalists rushing towards certain death, who all see the rise of fascism in every breath Trump takes. I hesitate to say with certainty, because they haven’t figured out what George Orwell’s message really was, but maybe some of them could read this and contemplate how close America really is to throwing Jews out of tennis clubs or enacting race laws. I know; it’s a big ‘but’. Forget I mentioned it.