Letters to the Romance World

    While reading “Agostino,” I was struck by a distinct tone of the Freudian; the ways in which maturing from the child to the teenager–and various ventures into adulthood in-between–are contrasted with a love, innocent or otherwise, of a maternal figure central to one’s life. Although one may be tempted to refer to the relationship between Agostino and his mother as toxic in the ways they feed off of and manipulate the other’s emotions (and this claim would not be incorrect), I believe the bigger theme at play here is a story of “leaving of the nest.” 

    On both the part of the mother and the child, there is an exploration of the strangers once observed in life, never spoken or interacted with. As they grow less reliant on each other for happiness, there is both a clinging desperation and a cruelty shown which is unmatched by anyone hated–instead, it is the loved one which receives the most vitriol. It is through the mother and child the author highlights the pains of growing up: the struggles and misunderstandings which often accompany familial severance. 

    There is a sense of tragedy when Agostino loses his mother to the young man. “It had been his fate to fall from the summit of an illusion and crash to the ground, aching and bruised,” the author states, and when considering the fall of Icarus—pride of having the mother, his metaphorical sun, before losing her—one can see an allusion to the Greek lesson, that which occurs when flying too close: a founding text for romance literature (pg. 8).

    Yet highlighted here is a masochistic element to his loss as well. According to the omniscience of the narrator, “[t]he humiliation and repulsion of the daily outings had almost become his reason for living” (pg. 14). One of these many confessions lend themselves to a sexual interpretation of the relationship. Yet I do not believe such descriptions are intended to be directly incestuous; they are simply a desperate plea for love. 

    After finding himself in the company of villainous boys, acquaintances rather than friends, the narrator makes peace with his mother’s escapades. This is in part due to him no longer being dependent on her for happiness. “It was right that his mother should behave in such a way with the young man,” he states (pg. 39). And coupled with his newfound view of her as just another “woman,” not his mother by blood, there is an ambiguity on whether it is for buried hatred or a mere indifference which causes his pain. 

    By the conclusion of this reading, I am left with the question of how far ambiguity contributes to a narrative. One quote in particular stuck with me: “Descending suddenly from respect and reverence to the opposite sentiments, he almost hoped that before his eyes her clumsiness would turn to vulgarity, her nudity to provocation, her innocence to naked guilt” (pg. 44). Whether or not this is a buried desire to love his mother in the fashion of the young man, or simply a desire to feel loved in the innocent way of boyhood, remains a mystery to me. In either case, I enjoyed the exploration of love as a need by the author—once more, sexual or otherwise.