Writer Mauro Corona: 'With my upbringing, I could have become a killer.'

A tough but also sensitive novel is Like a stone in the stream by Mauro Corona (72), and a reflection of himself. In daily life, the Italian writer and visual artist becomes more and more like the hedgehog in his book, which eventually drops all its spines. 'I try to let the softness hidden somewhere inside come out more.'

In Italy, he is a phenomenon

Drop the name Mauro Corona in front of any Italian, and a conversation immediately ensues. With his fierce beard and grey hair under a bandana, and a cigar and drink in hand, the writer, visual artist and television personality is not exactly a colourless person. Some consider him a uomo particolare, a 'special' man. Others call him un personaggio, a 'character'. In any case, he is a well-known and notable figure.

In Italy, he is a phenomenon, and a literary role model for other writers such as Paolo Cognetti. Yet Like a stone in the stream, which Corona wrote ten years ago, the first novel of his to be translated into Dutch. The book is an excellent introduction to Corona's work, and to the writer himself. For of all his novels, this one is the most personal.

A young life, devoid of fun and love

Like a stone in the stream tells the life story of a writer and visual artist who retreats to the mountains after turning 60. His life is marked by physical and mental hardship. He and his two brothers are abandoned by their mother as children. The three boys grow up with their poor and taciturn grandparents, are beaten by their father and have to work every day in the marble quarries; their young lives are devoid of any kind of fun and love. It turns the eldest son into a bitter, tough adult who cannot form loving relationships because, from the pain that resides within him, he hurts others with his behaviour.

This book is about the deep, all-consuming wounds of such a damaging childhood. And about the necessity of remembering, talking and writing to get rid of that burden of the past. But it is also about the power of love, of a real listening ear. Because a woman who loves the protagonist in later life gives him the chance to soften through her understanding attention.

Corona, just back from a trip through the beautiful Dolomites, perches on the terrace of his beloved Albergo al Lago, a wonderful hotel on Misurina Lake. He lights a cigar and orders a glass of beer, and immediately another. And when the first one is half gone, just one more. With roguish eyes, he looks at the Dutch visit.

Burden of the past

The first pages of the novel state that the story is a fantasy. But writing about the consequences of childhood traumas with such passion is hardly possible without having experienced some of it.

'When you dig deep into delicate matters, it is sometimes frightening what comes up. So then you just say it's made up, especially to protect family and others involved. But it is definitely about my own life. I wrote this book to free myself from a secret, from the burden of my past. Because I don't want to die misunderstood. The 30-plus books I have written are all self-portraits to a greater or lesser extent. But the simple image people have of me - a brave, extroverted and boastful man, or an alcoholic - does not do justice to the truth. In previous novels, I have tried to tell the tragedy of my life in small chunks, with lightness and laughter. But this is the book in which I bare my soul the most. If only one of my books were to be translated, it would have to be this one.'

The book was published in your home country 11 years ago. How were the reactions?

'Many readers felt that I should not have hung out the dirty laundry of my background. Especially in my home town of Erto e Casso, where I was born and still live, I received a lot of criticism. But dirty laundry should be washed and hung outside on the clothesline, I think. This is the only way we can learn from each other, by seeing that everyone has their problems and how to deal with them. This book is almost a testament to the person I really am. I too have a heart and a soul.'

What was your childhood like?

'My father was violent. Sometimes he would tie my and my brothers to a pole and then beat our mother to a bloody pulp. Horrible scenes. My mother ran off; I was 6, my brother 5 - he died before his 18^the - and my youngest brother was only four months old. We were orphans, so to speak, while our parents were still alive, and grew up with my paternal grandparents, taciturn people. I did not get my first pair of shoes of my own until I was 13, but I am not complaining about the poverty or lack of things; that was just a daily reality. What was bad was the total lack of love: that robbed us of our childhood. Alcohol sedation was one way of coping with all this. It took the sharp edges off the pain I felt inside.'

Writing was also a way for you to survive.

'Before becoming a writer, I did a lot of hard work; I worked in mines, as a lumberjack, dishwasher, construction worker. I wrote my first book in 1997, for my children. I discovered that writing is actually the only thing that frees me from agonising thoughts. Even while climbing mountains or sculpting, I think about the woes in my life, only writing chases away all thoughts and numbs my melancholy. It has brought me money and fame, but if it hadn't, I would have done it too. Because it helps me live. It is hard to be happy, but calmness and contentment are a form of humbler happiness.'

How has the past marked you?

'As a child, I was not taught what love is. Indeed, my father taught us not the principle of "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth", but of "an eye for two eyes". Retaliation, revenge. That's how my grandfather was, and my father then passed that on to me. When, at 18, I was sick to death of being beaten up by my father, I fought back and beat him up. "OK, and when I pull out my gun, what do you do?" he said to me. "Let's see who gets it the fastest," I replied. Then he left me alone.

I could have become an assassin

With the upbringing as I had it, I had could become a killer. But from that I managed to save myself. The fame I sought by appearing on television initially came from vanity. It has earned me haters, but also brought a lot of good. For instance, I managed to stop the closure of the sanatorium for asthmatic children, that yellow building there across the lake.

Becoming famous, climbing up the social ladder, has been a form of revenge, only in a more positive form.

My hometown is small and closed off, as if thick walls of air separated it from the rest of the world. So it felt like an achievement to break free from that.'

The drawbacks of fame

Corona beckons the waiter to bring another beer and lunges at his cigar stub. Noticing passers-by surreptitiously trying to take a picture of him, he slaps his hands in front of his face. 'In the beginning, being famous was still fun, I liked being in the limelight and felt proud. But it falls harder and harder on me. I can no longer enter a bar without being accosted and asked all kinds of questions. If I go out with a woman, it's on the front page of the newspaper the next day. I enjoy signing books, but some people or photographers behave like paparazzi. I try to stay nice - which usually works, except when I've had too much to drink - but I get really livid when people say to me that they don't believe I wrote my books myself.'

You still live in the village where you were born and grew up. Have you never felt the need to literally leave that behind?

'Erto is beautiful. I love this landscape immensely, and the more years go by, the more beautiful it becomes. Here in Misurina, I have been coming to go into the mountains since I was young. The trees, mountains and fields contain my memories.

Your roots are like ropes of rubber; you can go so far away, but as soon as you lower your armour, you are pulled back. I wanted to avoid that, so that's why I never left.'

Did the mountains help to heal?

'Absolutely. As a child, at some point I no longer trusted adults, I felt in danger among them. In the mountains, I felt safe and cherished. Being surrounded by nature, with birds chirping and trees all having their own sound, made me feel protected. And it still feels that way, like being embraced by the mountains. Of course, mountains are dangerous and can kill me. But then there is no intentionality involved. Mankind has already killed me, and in that case, bad intentions did occur.'

Your book betrays a rather black vision of humanity.

Corona grins. 'Only an idiot smiles at breakfast. Who said that again? Some authors write books about happy marriages, but I think literature is meant to expose wounds and create new ones. It should hurt, chafe, wring, be hard to digest. It should shine a spotlight on pain, misery, hunger, everything that is difficult, not okay. So that readers learn something from it or find comfort in it. Pain, love and hardship are universal topics, whether you live in Erto, or in China.'

At the same time, the story also has something tender and fairy-like, because of the old man and woman's love for each other and the way they spend their last days at a distance, she with a hedgehog, he with a deer. Something of gentleness and hope shines through.

'One day I came to realise that I myself had quite a hand in the negative relationships with people and situations in my life. Since then, I have been trying to let out more of the softness that is also hidden somewhere inside. Now, at my 72^e, I am sweeter than I used to be. I am like a stone in a mountain stream. The stones in it get rounder and rounder; the water wears off the sharp points. That's what happens to people too, life teaches you to become rounder, softer, less prickly. So that you hurt others less. I argued with many people. Even with my parents, I never got back on good terms. I wish I had had the intelligence and sensitivity at a younger age not to pay them back with the same coin with which they paid me. I regret that to this day.'

This report was made thanks in part to the Matching Fund.

Good to know

Mauro Corona, Like a stone in the stream, translated by Marieke van Laake, Wereldbibliotheek, €22.99