He was the person I turned to (and still do) when I had questions about anything pertaining to contemporary Italian literature in translation. Michael (if I refer to him by first name, it is due to our friendship) had previously translated two of my most beloved authors-Alberto Moravia and Primo Levi-and reading his translations had motivated me to form intense relationships with both Moravia and Levi in Italian. My inability to reckon with Manzoni, in either English or in Italian, gnawed at me. And so I was thrilled when, in 2015, I learned that Michael Moore was at work on a new English version. But my inability to reckon with Manzoni, in either English or in Italian, gnawed at me. None of the writers I befriended in Rome spoke about it much, perhaps because it was already a hallowed part of their collective consciousness. When I moved to Italy, most of my friends groaned at the memory of having to slog through it in high school. I read a few chapters before abandoning it. Unfortunately, I found the translation underwhelming and nearly as impenetrable. To help things along, I procured a version of the book in English: The Betrothed. But even setting aside the staggering number of pages, Manzoni’s language was beyond me, and I knew that I was barely scratching the surface of what he was saying. Of course, I had tried to read it right away, as soon as I returned to Brooklyn after my tutor’s wedding. Ten years would pass before I opened the book, one cold January day in Princeton, New Jersey, and devoured it to the end in a burst of unabated enthusiasm. Back then, I considered reading and understanding a short story in Italian a major accomplishment. Given that her daughter was teaching me Italian, she must have felt inspired to introduce me to Italy’s most celebrated novel-all 582 pages of it-in its original form.

It was a paperback copy of I promessi sposi. In the affectionate confusion of saying goodbyes, the bride’s mother ran into a bookstore and placed a tome in my hands. Her family hosted us warmly, and on the last day we spent together, before my own family and I were headed back to the airport in Genoa, they organized a final, intimate lunch with the newlyweds. The bride, who lived in Brooklyn in those days, as I did, was my Italian tutor.

I attended my first Italian wedding in the seaside town of Sestri Levante, on the Ligurian coast.

The betrothed new translation