It's this time of year when many are looking for a good holiday read. It might be apt to tell you about the Neapolitan series by Elena Ferrante, four books starting with My Brilliant Friend, which describe the lives of two friends, Lila and Lenu, from early childhood until the narrative ends in their sixties. Both women were born in 1944 in a poor neighbourhood of Naples and tried to build better lives for themselves. The reader is invited to step into a tightly knotted world of neighbourhood relationships, love affairs, class struggle and personal ambitions.

I gobbled up the four books almost one after the other, turning pages with impatience of a reader, deeply invested in the story. The books are terribly translated from Italian with the clumsy, sometimes incomprehensible words irritating the reader, particularly partial to the mastery of the language. The drama of the narrative is subtle although a few events made me bolt up from my seat from the sheer unexpectedness. And yet despite the poor language and the fairly uneventful plot, Elena Ferrante has captured my attention unlike anyone I had recently read. It's because her main characters, Lila and Lenu, especially Lenu, who tells the story, were so raw and honest in their thoughts and emotions.

Elena Ferrante, unusual in this day and age, had decided she wanted none of the publicity which comes with becoming a published author - her books appeared under a pseudonym. Perhaps it's what had allowed her to be so candid in describing female insecurity, envy, jealousy, shame, sexual pleasure and the whole kaleidoscope of vivid and complicated human emotions.  Her mothers aren't perfect, they feel terribly guilty about their lack of aptitude in bringing up children. Lovers disappoint in banal ways. Studious girls take time to realise their own worth. Mother-daughter relationships are difficult. Anxiety, depression and grief frequently take central stage (but the novels aren't dark or depressing, just honest). 

I found myself completely taken by the Neopolitan Novels because, as I had realised, honesty is such a scarce commodity in print. Books and especially newspapers, which are meant to be objective, have long relegated honesty to the bottom of the league of priorities. Facts and experts are apparently overvalued, especially in online media, where the so-called clickbaits rule. There is a view that fiction is something we read to escape the reality but actually, at least subconsciously, we are constantly looking for people, things and emotions we can relate to. It's these books that truly engage us and stay with us for days or even years afterwards. It was refreshing for me to read something so unashamedly bare, that Lenu's turmoils turned from escape into alleviating some weight, which had been pressing down on my chest.

We live in thrilling and simultaneously terrifying times, whether you are British, American, French or Russian; whether you avoid the social media or depend on it. We have access to more information than ever before, yet it is fiendishly difficult to make head or tail of what we are consuming via radio, television, newspapers and Facebook. Many politicians, business leaders, media outlets and even experts (remember being told to eat "low fat" or that eating eggs causes high cholesterol?) have used up all our trust, making it exhausting to try to decipher fact from fiction. A little more honesty in politics, business, parenting and relationships might just alleviate some future crises. Consider a politician saying "I don't know" rather than telling a lie: it may result in a public ridicule, but it may also help to avert a disaster. And if you are tired of all the media bombarding you with lies, get an honest book of fiction for your holiday. It will do you good.

Honest books I recommend:

Elena Ferrante My Brilliant Friend etc.
Svetlana Alexievich Second-Hand Time
Alain de Botton The Course of Love
Richard Flanagan The Narrow Road to the Deep North
Lionel Shriver Big Brother

My oven broke down on Saturday. I procrastinated for a day, then called an electrician on Monday. He swiftly found the problem, estimated the cost of repair and recommended I get a new oven. I sighed but acted decisively, went through the drama of delivery mishaps and finally had a new shiny appliance installed in my kitchen. In times of crises, I reflected, we move mountains at the speed of light.

Indeed, it takes a crisis to attract our attention. We keep eating pastries and ice cream until we are diagnosed with diabetes and then we are at last compelled to look at our eating habits. It takes a medical diagnosis to realise that we've been racing through life at an unsustainable pace. Our politicians have waited until the society is brutally divided by a plebiscite to begin paying attention to an ever widening gap between the fortunate and the less so. When the man at the steering wheel resigns, when the main political parties are in turmoil, when the confidence in the economy tanks and people take to the streets, the politicians get a wake up call. 

Yet most of us just keep snoozing the alarm clock. Some make a vague attempt at writing down "to do" lists, only to bury them under a stack of papers. Some read books on wellness, feel the momentary urge to embark on clean eating and daily exercise regime, then lose that spark. Companies too are guilty of tackling only the most myopic of challenges to survive the current quarter, six months, or a year. And Western politicians are seemingly happy to do anything to avert the crisis at hand, only to cause a shipwreck some months down the line. 

I noticed that when I meet old or ailing people, I never think "it'll happen to me." I even take pride in living "in a moment". When I speak to my grandmother, who is ninety, we only talk about this and that, I do not dare ask her about regrets or things she would have done differently. It's curious, isn't it, this narrow path we tread between feeling content today and thinking ahead. It doesn't help that we are told to do what makes us happy, to worry less and enjoy more, while at the same time the global ageing population, challenging healthcare and pensions provisions, present us with a much more sombre message. It should be a clue that it's hard to get a doctor appointment in the UK, because GPs are busy writing insulin prescriptions for the 60+ but who can resist trying out a new cake recipe in a brand new oven?

I can't pretend I have the answers. Like the outgoing Prime Minister, I am an "essay crisis" type of person. But today I might just call my grandmother and ask her for advice. 

As always, comments welcome...