Immanuel’s gentle touch of melancholy and redemption

Some books are fascinating and magical, others interesting and thought-provoking, but only a few manage to touch something deep within our frail material existence. Immanuel Mifsud’s unpretentious novels belong to the latter category.

His books are imbued with a gentle melancholy that creates a deep ache you can almost feel in your stomach, a sensation of lightness and weight reminiscent of the floating boulder in René Magritte’s The Castle of the Pyrenees.

In fact, I was reluctant to embark on this journey, fearing it might trigger my anxieties. I was fully aware of the impact Mifsud’s melancholy could have on me, fearing it would take me to places I was uncertain about visiting.

After all, what could one expect from a book entitled Filli ma tkun Xejn, Filli tidħol fl-Eżistenza – a title derived from a papal sermon that found its way into a popular prayer book – if not existential angst? Yet, it also came with a more reassuring alternative title: Marzu, April, Mejju – months that, for me, signify optimism.

In some ways, I wasn’t wrong. The melancholy evoked by rows of trees, early morning trains, and the foggy memories of a distant and vanishing Malta accentuates this feeling. Furthermore, this sensation is amplified by the self-narration of the book’s protagonist, Edgar, through which one gets the impression that existence is nothing more than a constantly edited clip of selective memories, through which we construct what we think we are.

Edgar grapples with the precariousness and fluidity of romantic and sexual relationships – a phenomenon sociologist Zygmunt Bauman terms “liquid love”. This instability is intensified by the WhatsApp messages Edgar exchanges with the two women he is seeing. Rooted in his routines, Edgar struggles to fathom how someone can share their life with the same person and body for twenty years – a question I often ponder.

But this is not the most intriguing part of the novel. Edgar also uncovers intimate secrets –

not only his own but, crucially, those of his parents. His mother, close to death, willingly confesses her one-time infidelity.

Filli ma tkun Xejn, Filli tidħol fl-Eżistenza

Here lies the novel’s relevance. It explores a generational dialogue within a triangle between Edgar, his mother, and Astrid, his new love.

In this sense, Mifsud breaks new ground, addressing issues highly relevant in an ageing society where one generation’s old age coincides with the midlife crisis of another. While, until a few decades ago, older people mostly interacted with their younger children, we now live in a society where parents pass away as their children approach old age.

The novel also raises questions about how far parents should burden their children with their intimate secrets and life narratives. As a father myself, I find this a tricky subject. Is too much information a burden, or do we owe our children explanations for choices that directly shaped their upbringing?

The novel compels the reader to reflect on the secrets lost between generations and the true nature of our understanding of those closest to us. Yet, this selective editing of our life stories is something we all engage in as we construct the narrative we call our “self.”

In this sense, the novel touches a raw nerve. It moves away from a sanitised idea of family life as a refuge and shelter from a dangerous world to one where secrets lurk in every corner. Yet, these secrets are not necessarily abhorrent or disturbing – they are simply part of the human experience, making us all too human.

The novel thus becomes a sort of confessional, offering not a definitive but a hopeful sense of redemption, with Astrid, a divorced foreigner with no roots here, playing a key role. Her question to Edgar – whether trees make “nam nam” (their euphemism for intercourse) – reinforces this liberating aspect, a break from Catholic and patriarchal guilt. She asks this question with the same innocence as asking whether trees sleep.

The novel also offers a refreshing depiction of older people adapting to modern times with a compassionate humanity that envelops the beautiful relationship between Astrid and Edgar’s mother.

It portrays a nuanced and pluralistic view of womanhood, far from cultural stereotypes that pit the sexualised whore against the de-sexualised mother. The women in the book have sexual desires, yearn for romantic connections and security, and sometimes even aspire, anachronistically, to be housewives in a modern world, as Astrid wishes – to Edgar’s consternation.

The novel, for me, also serves as a reflection on monogamy and an invitation to honesty. Infidelity, in this context, is not portrayed as the ultimate betrayal but as a challenging aspect of the human condition that does not necessarily negate lifelong companionship.

In short, the book did not make me happy, and, at times, it made me profoundly sad. Yet, strangely, it left me precariously optimistic. Would I recommend it as a Christmas gift? Definitely – but it might be better suited for reading in March, April, or May.