Fiction – paperback; Pushkin Press; 277 pages; 2023. Translated from the Italian by Ann Goldstein.

In the 21^st century when all the world’s a stage and people’s private lives are made so very public via social media, it’s hard to imagine that a woman keeping a secret diary could ever be considered dangerous.

But in 1950s Rome, things were different. Women were expected to devote themselves entirely to their husbands and children. Finding time and space just to think, let alone write, was nearly impossible — and even seen as selfish. In a deeply patriarchal society, carving out a private inner life wasn’t just frowned upon; it went against the ideals of being selfless, obedient and silent.

In Forbidden Notebook, bestselling Italian-Cuban feminist writer Alba de Céspedes (1911–1997) tells the story of a married woman who secretly carves out time for herself to “write down daily events […] and try to understand why they occurred” (page 22).

Therapy on paper

What starts as a relatively innocent, albeit clandestine, activity — the mere recording of day-to-day life in a black notebook — becomes something more akin to therapy, as 43-year-old Valeria Cossati begins to pour her thoughts onto paper.

Seeing things written down makes her more attuned to her feelings and to the restrictive roles she plays that have been imposed on her by her family — Michele, whom she’s been married to for more than 20 years, and her two adult children, Ricarrdo and Mirella — and society.

Over time, a slow awakening occurs and she begins to question her own life choices: how did she get here and why does she put up with so much?

I’m forced to write at night again—I don’t have a moment’s peace during the day. Besides, I notice that no one is surprised or opposed if I stay up at night, saying I still have some chores to take care of. The fact that only at this hour can I be alone to write makes me realize that for the first time in twenty-three years of marriage I’m doing something for myself. I write on a small table in the bath room, the way I did when I was girl and, unbeknownst to my mother wrote notes that the maid, after some resistance, agreed to deliver to a classmate (page 61).

Taken for granted

The diary, which spans just five months (26 November 1950 to 27 May 1951), is filled with Valeria’s observations, doubts, frustrations and desires.

Her children are old enough to look after themselves, but they’re still living at home — and taking up more than just her mental energy. The living room has even been converted into a bedroom for Mirella, allowing her to study law in peace.

In addition to her own job outside the family home, Valeria does all the cooking and cleaning, tasks that exhaust her, but which her children take for granted.

It’s terrible to think that I sacrificed my entire self to beautifully perform tasks that they consider obvious, natural (page 35)

To make matters worse, Valeria often clashes with her daughter, a confident and rebellious young woman who embodies a new generation pushing back against the rules their mothers lived by. Mirella stays out late, follows her own path and keeps secrets — especially about a rumoured relationship with an older, wealthy lawyer, which Valeria can’t ignore.

Then there’s Riccardo, who dreams of moving to Argentina after his studies to build a better life, but those plans fall apart when he falls in love and gets his girlfriend pregnant.

An outsider

Valeria has no close female friends with whom she can discuss these matters because, unlike most other women of the time, she holds an office administration job that helps contribute to her family’s financial needs.

It is this independence that other women view with suspicion and condescension. Even her own mother sees it as a betrayal, thinking the husband should bear “all the financial responsibility for the household” (page 33).

It made me wonder if I’m really a good wife, since I pay the dressmaker and the hairdresser with my own earnings, and so prevent Michele from taking part, in some way, in these proofs. I thought of the days when I’d skim something off the shopping money to send Michele and the children to a soccer game so that I could write in peace (page 32).

Amid all the worry and drama at home, Valeria lives with the constant fear that someone will find her notebook. Later, when she grows close to her boss, Guido (aka “The Director”), things start to take a romantic turn, and she finds herself guarding that secret just as carefully.

A room of one’s own

The Forbidden Notebook is a well-argued account of why women must be allowed the freedom to explore their own identities, desires and ambitions outside the confines of societal norms. And while it occasionally adopts a self-pitying tone, it’s largely written with verve, spirit and insight.

Many Italian novelists have explored similar themes — Natalia Ginzburg, Sibilla Aleramo, Milena Agus et al — so there’s nothing particularly new or groundbreaking here, but nonetheless it’s a valuable addition to the canon of feminist literature.

The Forbidden Notebook was first published in 1952 and was reissued by Pushkin Press in 2023 with a foreword by Jhumpa Lahri who describes it as a “radical novel” whether or not we choose to read it “through a feminist lens” (page 4).

[…] it blazes with significance. Women’s words are still laughed at, still silenced, still considered dangerous. De Céspedes vindicates, artfully and ardently, a woman’s right to write — a right that must never be taken for granted (page 4).

I read this book for the 1952 Club, hosted by Simon (Stuck in a Book) and Karen (Kaggsy’s Bookish Ramblings), which runs from April 21 to 27, and encourages readers to review a book (or books) published in 1952.

In 2025, I’m trying to read as many books as possible from my TBR. This is #13. I bought this book when everyone was raving about it but then it sat there for about 18 months unread!