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Rediscovering Natalia Ginzburg | The New Yorker

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In an early novella by the Italian writer Natalia Ginzburg—it has just been reissued by New Directions, as “The Dry Heart” (translated by Frances Frenaye)—the narrator walks into her husband’s study and finds him sketching. He shows her his drawing: “a long, long train with a big cloud of black smoke swirling over it and himself leaning out of a window to wave a handkerchief.” In other words, goodbye. He laughs. She doesn’t. “I took the revolver out of his desk drawer and shot him between the eyes.” About time! For their entire marriage, four years, she has cowered before him: “I was always worried about my face and body, and when we made love I was afraid he might be bored. Every time I had something to say to him I thought it over to make sure it wasn’t boring.” Eventually, he takes to sleeping in his study, though he occasionally calls her in, to have sex, and then, presumably, sends her out again. “Why don’t more wives kill their husbands?” the book’s jacket copy asks. Maybe they w

Save this story Save this story In an early novella by the Italian writer Natalia Ginzburg—it has just been reissued by New Directions, as “ The Dry Heart ” (translated by Frances Frenaye)—the narrator walks into her husband’s study and finds him sketching. He shows her his drawing: “a long, long train with a big cloud of black smoke swirling over it and himself leaning out of a window to wave a handkerchief.” In other words, goodbye. He laughs. She doesn’t. “I took the revolver out of his desk drawer and shot him between the eyes.” About time! For their entire marriage, four years, she has co

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