Those Who Leave And Those Who Stay

Ferrante’s third Neapolitan novel hits like a gut punch. The duality of leaving/staying isn’t just geographical—it’s about emotional loyalty to your roots versus the hunger for reinvention. Lila’s arc here destroys me: her intelligence sharp enough to cut glass, yet circumstance keeps slamming doors in her face. Meanwhile, Elena’s academic rise feels bittersweet; every achievement is shadowed by guilt over leaving Lila behind. The factory scenes are brutal—Ferrante paints exploitation with such quiet fury. What’s genius is how the neighborhood itself becomes a character, pulling them back no matter how far they run. This isn’t just a story about two women; it’s about every impossible choice society forces on ambitious women.

Reading 'Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay' feels like peeling back layers of a deeply personal diary. The way Ferrante captures the tension between ambition and obligation is so raw it hurts. I see myself in Lila's restless brilliance, how she burns too bright for the confines of her neighborhood yet can't fully escape its gravitational pull. The prose has this electric quality—like static building before a storm—when describing Elena's academic success versus Lila's trapped genius. Their friendship isn't just a bond; it's a mirror reflecting every woman's struggle between societal expectations and self-determination.

What guts me most is how Ferrante portrays motherhood. It's not the sanitized version we usually get. Lila's breakdown after her daughter’s birth isn’t romanticized—it’s visceral, chaotic, real. The novel doesn’t shy away from showing how domesticity can feel like quicksand, especially for women who once dreamed bigger. The contrast between Elena’s publishing achievements and Lila’s factory work is a masterclass in showing how class and gender intersect. Ferrante doesn’t judge either path; she just lays them bare, messy and unresolved, which makes the story linger in your bones long after reading.