It was almost two am. I was in the common room of my college dorm, reading The Story of a New Name, the second book in Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan series. It was Saturday; I had given up a night of partying and fun with friends to sit alone and read. Three of my friends came in and I was so engrossed in the book that I didn’t notice until they were a foot away from me. Two of them were visibly tipsy, eyes narrowed by tiredness. K leaned in and hugged me, relaxing all her body weight onto my shoulders, limbs loosening into sleep. “Okay let’s go” the other two said and hoisted K up from me. “Get high with that yet?” one of them says, looking at the battered copy lying in my lap. “I already am”, I said with a laugh. I picked up the book after I read on the blurb, “Elena Ferrante’s piercingly honest portrait of two girls’ path into womanhood.” I was in a state of transition myself, having moved to college, and a coming-of-age novel full of growing pains and angst was just what I needed. Ferrante’s writing had a seriousness to it. It continue...