Another unputdownable novel in the series. The best parts feel revelatory, as they pick up in medias res from where you leave off. Memoir, possibly some measure of Autofiction, if people knew anything verifiable of Ferrante.

Off the back of the last two, which feel very much to me like a duology, we fall into a malaise mirroring middle book syndrome that feels like the passion and decisive insight gleaned by the two and fro of happiness and sadness evaporate. This seems to be the number one complaint of this, but when the shift occurs outside of this, it feels just like the previous books, the reasons for which would be spoilers. But I thought then and think now that the intentional choice of sinking the reader into the change in writer is bold and worked very well. The form mirrors the characters emotions, the same as the personality and emotions experienced before. It is undeniably less observant and keen, blunted to make a point. I found it worked for me. I still could not stop reading. Though I did think it may end up less successful.

Instead it rockets up to the same highs that always seem to be provided. For a reader that doesn’t derive much pleasure from the macro construction of a narrative, I could see why this wouldn’t be as good. For me, had the middle period not been constructed as it was, I don’t think the end of this one would have hit just as well. The second book is still my favourite, but it’s kind of like saying the first book and this third one is *only* 5 stars, where the second is 10. And that high because of the counterpoint to the first. Leaving me to wonder if the last book will similarly be in counterpoint to this, augmented to an almost arbitrarily too-high height.