conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Award, Prize, Premio with the genre: Literature & Fiction, History & Criticism?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Clothing of Books'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first three paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Clothing of Books
  In my bathroom in Brooklyn, meanwhile, I have grouped, in small frames on the wall, a number of postcards that reproduce covers from the early years of the original Penguin paperback series launched by Allen Lane in 1935: Shakespeare, Agatha Christie, Iris Murdoch, R. D. Laing. These distinctive images have by now come to adorn T-shirts and coffee mugs. Their insignia is tantamount to a literary badge of honor. In high school and in college, reading an orange-spined Penguin Classic felt reassuring, virtuous. I assumed they were works of quality, of substance.
  I am surrounded in this library by my past. I think of my father's long life as a librarian, of the library I went to as a girl, of all the libraries I have frequented and loved in America.
  Upon close inspection, my covers tend perfectly to mirror my own double identity, bifurcated, disputed. As a result they are often projections, conjectures.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Clothing of Books
  In my bathroom in Brooklyn, meanwhile, I have grouped, in small frames on the wall, a number of postcards that reproduce covers from the early years of the original Penguin paperback series launched by Allen Lane in 1935: Shakespeare, Agatha Christie, Iris Murdoch, R. D. Laing. These distinctive images have by now come to adorn T-shirts and coffee mugs. Their insignia is tantamount to a literary badge of honor. In high school and in college, reading an orange-spined Penguin Classic felt reassuring, virtuous. I assumed they were works of quality, of substance.
  I am surrounded in this library by my past. I think of my father's long life as a librarian, of the library I went to as a girl, of all the libraries I have frequented and loved in America.
  Upon close inspection, my covers tend perfectly to mirror my own double identity, bifurcated, disputed.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In my bathroom in Brooklyn, meanwhile, I have grouped, in small frames on the wall, a number of postcards that reproduce covers from the early years of the original Penguin paperback series launched by Allen Lane in 1935: Shakespeare, Agatha Christie, Iris Murdoch, R. D. Laing. These distinctive images have by now come to adorn T-shirts and coffee mugs. Their insignia is tantamount to a literary badge of honor. In high school and in college, reading an orange-spined Penguin Classic felt reassuring, virtuous. I assumed they were works of quality, of substance.
  I am surrounded in this library by my past. I think of my father's long life as a librarian, of the library I went to as a girl, of all the libraries I have frequented and loved in America.
  Upon close inspection, my covers tend perfectly to mirror my own double identity, bifurcated, disputed. As a result they are often projections, conjectures.
  All my life I have been in conflict between two different identities, both imposed. No matter how I try to free myself from this conflict, I find myself, as a writer, caught in the same trap.
  For some publishing houses, my name and photograph are enough to quickly commission a cover that teems with stereotyped references to India: elephants, exotic flowers, henna-painted hands, the Ganges, religious and spiritual symbols. No one considers that the greater part of my stories are set in the United States, and therefore pretty far from the river Ganges.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In my bathroom in Brooklyn, meanwhile, I have grouped, in small frames on the wall, a number of postcards that reproduce covers from the early years of the original Penguin paperback series launched by Allen Lane in 1935: Shakespeare, Agatha Christie, Iris Murdoch, R. D. Laing. These distinctive images have by now come to adorn T-shirts and coffee mugs. Their insignia is tantamount to a literary badge of honor. In high school and in college, reading an orange-spined Penguin Classic felt reassuring, virtuous. I assumed they were works of quality, of substance.
  I am surrounded in this library by my past. I think of my father's long life as a librarian, of the library I went to as a girl, of all the libraries I have frequented and loved in America.
  Upon close inspection, my covers tend perfectly to mirror my own double identity, bifurcated, disputed. As a result they are often projections, conjectures.
  All my life I have been in conflict between two different identities, both imposed. No matter how I try to free myself from this conflict, I find myself, as a writer, caught in the same trap.
  For some publishing houses, my name and photograph are enough to quickly commission a cover that teems with stereotyped references to India: elephants, exotic flowers, henna-painted hands, the Ganges, religious and spiritual symbols.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last four paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I would certainly prefer the uniformed elegance of a series to an insipid cover, or one that pains me. And yet I know that expressing oneself necessarily means being different. The writer's voice is a singular one, solitary. Art is nothing other than the freedom to express oneself in any language, in whatever manner, dressed any which way.
  I wrote this last sentence one evening. The following morning, after I'd stated my wish, something marvelous happened. Right in front of the gate to the building where I live in Rome there is a bus stop with two signposts close together.
  The following June, in the United States, I revisited both texts in order to prepare the English translation for publication. Back in Rome, after slightly modifying the translation, after correcting a couple of mistakes and adding one or two new thoughts, I had to rework the Italian text, translating myself, this time from English, in order to arrive at the final version. I'm struck by this repeated crossing between the two languages in which I write. I realize how useful it is to move back and forth linguistically. I also realize that the process is endless and that, as a result, the final version continues to elude me.
  I am grateful to Alberto for rendering this essay into English, and to Robin Desser, my editor at Knopf, for publishing it in its current form.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: And yet I know that expressing oneself necessarily means being different. The writer's voice is a singular one, solitary. Art is nothing other than the freedom to express oneself in any language, in whatever manner, dressed any which way.
  I wrote this last sentence one evening. The following morning, after I'd stated my wish, something marvelous happened. Right in front of the gate to the building where I live in Rome there is a bus stop with two signposts close together.
  The following June, in the United States, I revisited both texts in order to prepare the English translation for publication. Back in Rome, after slightly modifying the translation, after correcting a couple of mistakes and adding one or two new thoughts, I had to rework the Italian text, translating myself, this time from English, in order to arrive at the final version. I'm struck by this repeated crossing between the two languages in which I write. I realize how useful it is to move back and forth linguistically. I also realize that the process is endless and that, as a result, the final version continues to elude me.
  I am grateful to Alberto for rendering this essay into English, and to Robin Desser, my editor at Knopf, for publishing it in its current form.