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In sharp focus, by contrast, are the examinations of cultural matters in “Threads and Traces.” Pinpointing the sources of murderous prejudices, Ginzburg is always lucid and balanced, rejecting in a chapter, “Tolerance and Commerce: Auerbach Reads Voltaire,” the approach of German-Jewish philologist Erich Auerbach, who in his landmark “Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature,” written during wartime, amalgamated some Jew-hating passages by French philosopher Voltaire with Nazi propaganda. Ginzburg’s discussion of this detail in Auerbach’s sweeping examination of thematics in literature, from the ancient Greeks and Romans to Marcel Proust and Virginia Woolf, illuminates this landmark study written when its author was a refugee from Nazi Germany, living in Turkey.
Ever sensitive to Jewish history and its connotations, in his paper chase of erudition through the centuries, Ginzburg criticizes Princeton historian Peter Brown’s 1981 work, “The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity.” Ginzburg notes that Brown’s study describes a fifth-century mass conversion of the Jews of Minorca, one of Spain’s Balearic Islands in the Mediterranean, with “deliberate anachronisms” such as “pogrom” and “purge.”
A comparably discerning chapter, one with a dedication to Primo Levi, is titled “Just One Witness: The Extermination of the Jews and the Principle of Reality.” It deals with a 14th-century massacre of Jews in Provence who were blamed for an epidemic of the plague. Ginzburg cites the statement of French-Jewish classicist and human rights advocate Pierre Vidal-Naquet, whose mother was murdered at Auschwitz, that in the face of Holocaust deniers or certain historians’ claims that it is impossible to discern between truth and fiction in narrative, there is value in “that old notion of ‘reality,’ meaning ‘precisely what happened.’”
Addressing such matters, inspired by the precedents of historian Marc Bloch, Sigmund Freud, art historian Ernst Gombrich and literary critic Leo Spitzer, Ginzburg moves eloquently from the history of humanity to that of Jews, and of his own family. Ginzburg’s dedication to Levi may have further symbolic import in a family context, whether consciously or otherwise.
Ginzburg’s mother is esteemed for fiction set in Turin, Rome and the Abruzzi countryside, in which trauma is expressed through focus on apparently mundane details, clearly a family approach toward grasping truth, whether in fiction or history. Natalia Ginzburg played a curious role in Levi’s early literary career. In 1947, as a staffer at Giulio Einaudi Editore, she rejected Levi’s first book about his concentration camp experiences, “If This Is a Man.”
Although later an admirer of Levi’s work, she never explained this decision. Ferdinando Camon, a friend of Levi’s and author of “Conversations With Primo Levi,” opined that so soon after the war and her husband’s murder, so acute was Natalia Ginzburg’s pain that Levi’s subject matter was too upsetting, especially in the coolly objective style of “If This Is a Man.” If so — or even if not — then her son Carlo has responded to this onetime rejection over the intervening decades by not just accepting, but also repeatedly affirming and embodying, Levi’s literary message of humanistic survival.
Benjamin Ivry is a frequent contributor to the Forward.
Listen to Carlo Ginzburg lecture about the Internet in 2010.
And listen to Ginzburg in London in 2011, speaking about “The Historian’s Craft.”