When I heard that a major international broadcaster was planning a TV series based on Claudia Durastanti’s Strangers I Know, I was thrilled. As an Italian writer from the millennial generation, Durastanti’s book—a fictionalized memoir about growing up between rural southern Italy and Brooklyn, navigating identities as the hearing child of deaf parents—felt groundbreaking. It was the first literary novel by an Italian writer of my generation to reach a global audience. Published in English by Fitzcarraldo Editions in 2022, translated by Elizabeth Harris, its success was seen as a promising sign that international publishers were finally taking notice of a new wave of Italian literature.
Another reason for my excitement was that much of Strangers I Know is set in Basilicata, where my father is from. It’s one of Italy’s poorest regions, tucked into the arch of the country’s boot, so overlooked that even its most famous book—Carlo Levi’s wartime memoir Christ Stopped at Eboli—gets its title from the idea that salvation never reached it. Despite its stunning limestone canyons and ancient Greek ruins, Basilicata lacks the postcard-perfect Italianness—Tuscan hills, Venetian canals, Neapolitan alleys—that often seems required for international appeal. Durastanti’s novel felt like a chance to expand what an “Italian story” could be—because it was also an American one, and because it refused all stereotypes.
But then came the setback. After a pilot was written and greenlit, the broadcaster requested a rewrite. The Italian setting, they said, was too unfamiliar. Why not move it to Ireland? It was “kind of the same” (Catholic, poor) and easier for audiences to connect with. The project was eventually shelved.
The novel has always been tied to national identity. Walter Scott’s books shaped Scotland’s mythology; Manzoni’s The Betrothed unified Italy’s fragmented dialects; Goethe, Austen, Dostoevsky, and Balzac each captured the essence of their nations. Yet as these works crossed borders, something interesting happened: while rooted in specific places, they also revealed universal truths about being human—which, to me, is what novels do best.
This led to the idea of literature as a conversation between national traditions, each with its own seat at the table—though, as Milan Kundera pointed out, those seats were almost always reserved for men. The irony? The notion of “equal” exchange was built on an imperialistic premise. Smaller or marginalized literatures were often lumped together, while dominant cultures dictated the terms.
(Note: The text cuts off mid-thought, but the implied critique is clear—literary recognition has long been uneven, shaped by power and perception.)The concept of “Mitteleuropa” and similar umbrella terms once reflected a colonial past, yet this remained the framework for how literature was taught and read in Italy until just a few decades ago. We read Gustave Flaubert and Georges Perec, Jane Austen and Virginia Woolf, Thomas Mann and Ernesto Sábato—until suddenly, we didn’t.
The rise of the English-language publishing industry in the 1980s and 90s gave its most successful writers a global reach and critical influence unmatched by authors from other countries. By the early 2000s, Italy’s contemporary literary canon was dominated by David Foster Wallace, Zadie Smith, and Jonathan Franzen. The country’s first creative writing program, founded in the mid-90s, took its name from Holden Caulfield. Students—some of whom I’ve taught—learn technique by studying Ernest Hemingway and Joan Didion, who “show,” rather than Italian writers like Anna Maria Ortese and Elsa Morante, who “tell.” Computational studies by Eleonora Gallitelli reveal that even Italian syntax and style are now more influenced by English than by the language of translators working from English.
This shift wasn’t unique to Europe. As Minae Mizumura explores in The Fall of Language in the Age of English—a memoir-essay about her choice to become a Japanese rather than an American writer, a decision she later regretted—the idea of national literatures as equal, interconnected systems collapsed by the turn of the millennium. Instead, one tradition expanded beyond national borders, becoming the de facto universal standard.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with this—it could even be seen as an escape from nationalism. But universality can belong to only one tradition, and as English-language literature ascended, others shrank into local niches. Where national literatures once thrived on specificity (Austen’s England, Dostoevsky’s Russia), these details now risk being reduced to mere local color, picturesque but peripheral. When a story like Durastanti’s Strangers I Know aims for universal appeal, it makes sense to relocate it to a more familiar setting, where exoticism won’t distract.
I experienced something similar years ago when a German publisher rejected my second novel—a story of ambition and financial speculation—because the Italian setting might confuse readers accustomed to corporate raiders in New York or Frankfurt. Yet, he praised the Venetian chapters as “poetic” and suggested I set an entire book there. Italy, for him, was no longer a plausible stage for ambition (as in Paolo Volponi’s Le Mosche del Capitale) but a collection of exotic backdrops: Naples, Puglia, Rome, the Tuscan hills, or Venice.
In a way, this reflects a global division of labor: the international literary market assigns broad, universal themes to mostly English-speaking writers, while relegating local authors to producing gondolas, popes, weeping Madonnas, and pizza.
But Mizumura’s landscape has shifted dramatically in recent years. The dominance of anglophone literature has waned, and today’s celebrated authors—those shaping the contemporary canon and inspiring new writers—come from far more diverse backgrounds and languages. Roberto Bolaño, Annie Ernaux, Han Kang, and Karl Ove Knausgård are the new Franzens and Wallaces of our time.It’s impossible to pinpoint an exact moment for this kind of cultural shift, but “Ferrante fever” serves as a clear turning point. Elena Ferrante went from being a relatively obscure writer (both in Italy and internationally) to achieving spectacular worldwide success, reaching the kind of popularity once reserved for books like Infinite Jest that people carried around to appear intellectual. Her rise also sparked growing global interest in Italian literature—both contemporary writers like Durastanti (and myself) and overlooked classics by authors such as Elsa Morante and Alba de Céspedes.
There are several possible explanations for this trend. The consolidation of the U.S. publishing industry has made it harder for bold, innovative novels to break through. It might also reflect the growing popularity of translated literature in English-speaking markets—though the idea of “literature in translation” as a niche category would seem strange to non-English readers, who have always simply called it “literature.”
Another factor could be the changing nature of books themselves. Since the early 2000s, writers worldwide have embraced what Minae described as “dual literary citizenship,” seeing themselves as part of both local and global traditions. Many have blended the two, weaving subtle exoticism into their work to draw readers into deeper themes. A story set in Seoul might resonate more with readers in Buenos Aires or Naples than one set in Franzen’s Minnesota.
Of course, Ferrante’s novels offer far more than just an Italian backdrop—but that recognizable setting likely helped them connect with a broader audience. Similarly, Bolaño’s The Savage Detectives plays with Mexican stereotypes while transcending them, and Han Kang’s The Vegetarian taps into the body horror often associated with East Asian literature, only to subvert it with a searing critique of patriarchy.
Yet this global interest in non-English literature often depends on success in the English-speaking market first. Ferrante and Bolaño gained worldwide recognition only after breaking through in English. Han Kang’s The Vegetarian, published in South Korea in 2007, became an international sensation nearly a decade later thanks to Deborah Smith’s acclaimed translation. Tellingly, the Italian edition was translated from Smith’s English version rather than the original Korean—not for lack of translators, but because the editor found her prose more compelling.
This phenomenon isn’t limited to recent hits. Even canonical 20th-century Italian writers like Natalia Ginzburg and Alba de Céspedes have seen renewed interest through English translations.Many works by authors like Alba de Céspedes have been translated internationally primarily after their English editions. Similarly, the classic Danish author Tove Ditlevsen’s trilogy reached Italian readers only after its U.S. translation. While English-speaking culture no longer dominates global literature as it once did—what Umberto Eco called “the peripheries of the Empire”—it still serves as a bridge between different literary traditions, deciding which works travel beyond their local origins.
My own novel, Perfection, found translations in languages from Thai to Lithuanian only after gaining recognition in English and being shortlisted for the International Booker Prize. This could be viewed as a subtle form of cultural imperialism, yet it also creates opportunities for wider connections. Readers in Buenos Aires or Naples might relate more to a story set in Seoul than one set in Jonathan Franzen’s Minnesota, showing how peripheral cultures can find common ground without passing through the traditional center.
Durastanti’s latest novel, Missitalia, includes a section set in Basilicata, blending the real history of 19th-century women-only gangs in its forests with an alternate history of oil discovery. As the book is now being translated into ten languages (including English), she mentioned that translators sometimes ask for help capturing the region’s essence. Her advice? “Just think Appalachia.”
Perfection by Vincenzo Latronico, translated by Sophie Hughes, is published by Fitzcarraldo (£12.99). To support The Guardian and The Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
