The Underground Gardens (Criticism)

Criticism

Ryan D. Poquette

Poquette has a bachelor's degree in English and specializes in writing about literature. In the following essay, Poquette discusses Coraghessan's use of imagery in "The Underground Gardens."

The specific details of the life of Baldasare Forestiere — the Italian American historical figure who spent four decades digging a unique underground complex in Fresno, California, in the early 1900s — are open to debate. As depicted by Boyle's short story, "The Underground Gardens," Baldasare is a hardworking Italian immigrant who comes to America to make his fortune. Imbued with a strong faith in his abilities and a self-sufficient nature, Boyle's Forestiere perseveres even as his initial dreams are crushed and he must find the strength to follow new ones. He is a noble man who has admirable, even heroic qualities. This goes against the assessment of critics such as Denis Hennessy, who notes in his Dictionary of Literary Biography entry on Boyle, "The reader may ask as well if there are any real, memorable characters in his stories or if the cynicism of his stories has obliterated the humanity of the characters." When an author chooses to break his or her normal style, it is usually for good reason. By examining the effects of Boyle's use of imagery in "The Underground Gardens" one can begin to understand why the author deviates from his normal practice of writing cynical stories.

"The Underground Gardens" is an extremely visual story. From the very first paragraph, Boyle sets up the two types of imagery that he uses throughout the story which give the tale much of its power and help define Boyle's interpretation of Baldasare's life:

As a boy in Sicily he stood beside his brothers under the sun that was like a hammer and day after day stabbed his shovel into the skin of the ancient venerable earth of their father's orchards.

The sun in Sicily is so hot it is "like a hammer," setting up the story's strong environmental imagery. Likewise, Baldasare digs in the "skin" of his father's orchards, setting up the story's anatomical imagery. Environmental images are important to the plot of the story. Baldasare's labor background in Italy has prepared and conditioned him to work in Fresno's extreme heat. In fact, he prefers it to the "sleet and snow" that he faced working in America's eastern cities. He refers to California's weather as "good Sicilian heat, heat that baked you right down to the grateful marrow of your happy Sicilian bones." His ability to survive in this weather separates this "sun-seared little man" from many others, including his intended beloved, Ariadne Siagris, and her family. When Baldasare comes to pick up Ariadne, the "Siagris children lay about like swatted flies," and it is "too hot to smile, so" Mrs. Siagris "grimaced instead." And unlike Baldasare, Ariadne does not see the value in saving money by walking on a hot day. When he comes to pick her up to take her to see his house, she is shocked that he does not have a carriage and that he is expecting them to walk. "'Walk?" she echoed. "In this heat? You must be crazy."

Baldasare is not, however, immune to the effects of the heat. In fact, when he goes against his laboring nature and tries to be something he is not, by dressing up in fancy clothes to impress Ariadne, he is as hot and miserable as the rest of the populace. "He was wearing his best suit of clothes, washed just the evening before, and the unfamiliar jacket clung to him like dead skin." He is also not able to fully escape the cold that he faced in New York and Boston. During a particularly rainy night in his shack, the cold is almost unbearable. "He was wearing every stitch of clothing he possessed, wrapped in his blankets and huddled over the coal-oil lamp, and still he froze, even here in California."

These environmental factors, especially the cold, ultimately give Baldasare his initiative to start digging an underground home. During that cold, rainy night, he remembers his work in the tunnels in New York and Boston, "how clean they were, how warm in winter and cool in summer, how they smelled, always, of the richness of the earth." Baldasare, a very earthy man and raised to respect the soil, ultimately decides that living in the earth is a more natural choice for him than trying to live the aboveground, conventional life of everybody else.

Anatomical imagery also plays a large role in the story, especially as it relates to Baldasare's passion for Ariadne. Throughout the story, Boyle chooses images that contain undertones of sex or attraction. As a lifelong laborer, Baldasare has developed a toned body, so that when he lifts the handles of his new wheelbarrow, he feels "the familiar flex of the muscles of his lower back." Later, when Baldasare is trying to impress Ariadne and win back her love by digging the heart-shaped hole underneath her window, he wonders if she is watching, but "if she saw the lean muscles of his arms strain and his back flex, she gave no sign of it." Even Baldasare's digging takes on erotic qualities. For example, the day after he meets Ariadne, he begins digging the cellar that he expects will someday be a part of their house, and it is obvious that he is thinking about her in romantic terms while he is working. "The pick rose and fell, the shovel licked at the earth with all the probing intimacy of a tongue." Images of Ariadne and her anatomy also play prominently in the story, in both subtle and not-so-subtle ways. When Baldasare examines his new Fresno land to try to find a water source, he observes "the way the hill of his shack and the one beside it abutted each other like the buttocks of a robust and fecund woman." This description foreshadows, or predicts, the introduction of Ariadne, who grows in physical size as Baldasare's love grows for her. "He watched with satisfaction as her hips and buttocks swelled so that even at nineteen she had to walk with a waddle." Given the modern American culture, which tends to emphasize thinness, Baldasare's attraction might seem strange to some readers. Yet, to Baldasare, Ariadne's weight is an asset. He remembers one of the women in Italy, Signora Cardino, "who was said to drink olive oil instead of wine and breakfast on sugared cream and cake." To Baldasare, Ariadne's stoutness is a positive sign of her social status. As a poor immigrant, Baldasare has always restricted himself — in eating, spending, and all other aspects of living. To him, success in America means pursuing a robust, unrestricted life, the type of life that Ariadne currently leads. As the word "fecund" suggests in the above quote that describes Baldasare's land, Ariadne's girth also represents fertility. Baldasare's dream includes a large family, "his four sons and three daughters sprinting like colts across the yard," and he envisions Ariadne as the mother of these children.

Baldasare has a conviction that no others in the story possess. His passion for Ariadne is so intense that he is unwilling to let it go for any reason, and Boyle underscores this passion through his use of imagery. Unfortunately, Baldasare assumes that Ariadne's feelings for him are equally as strong, failing to recognize that the other characters in the story, including Ariadne, are more superficial than he is. Just as Ariadne expects to be shuttled around in a carriage as opposed to walking, she also is not willing to sacrifice her conventional vision of an aboveground home and accept Baldasare's underground palace.

Yet, even though Baldasare's goals of growing grapevines and marrying Ariadne ultimately prove impossible, and he willingly remains an outsider, he ends the story happier than all of the other characters, who let circumstances dictate their futures. For example, when it is clear to Ariadne that Baldasare is not rich, she promptly marries the wealthy Hiram Broadbent. Though he has money, he is also "a drunk" and "mean as the devil," and one suspects that Ariadne's marriage will be less than rosy. Baldasare is the only character who is totally in control of his future. He focuses on digging his underground complex, an activity that is not subject to any environmental or human factors. He is driven by the strength of this final vision, which is almost religious in nature. "Standing there in the everlasting silence beneath the earth, he reached out a hand to the wall in front of him, his left hand, pronating the palm as if to bless some holy place." One expects that Boyle's character will spend decades carving out his underground palace and that he will be happy while he is doing it.

So why did Boyle, who is known for his cynical satires about humans with few redeeming qualities, choose to write a nice little story about a hardworking Italian American immigrant who perseveres and who, given the historical background of the real Baldasare Forestiere, will probably end up succeeding? The answer may come from Boyle's own life. Like Baldasare, Boyle is an outsider, who initially wanted to be accepted by society. In his early career, Boyle yearned to be included among the nation's popular authors, but as Hennessy notes, "he has never become a household name." Like Baldasare, Boyle denied the urge to conform, even if it meant achieving his dream, and has instead stayed true to his own quirky nature. Boyle has been outspoken about his intent to write the way he wants to and has become noted for his unconventional appearance. As Hennessy notes, "Boyle has created a zany image for himself by accentuating his frizzy hair and wearing punk clothing while affecting a semiserious scowl." Given the great lengths to which Boyle goes in the story to label Baldasare an outsider, and the fact that Baldasare is the only truly happy character at the end of the story, it is likely that Boyle gave "The Underground Gardens" a positive spin to send the message that outsiders win in the end — regardless of what anybody thinks of their unconventional lifestyles.

Source: Ryan D. Poquette, Critical Essay on "The Underground Gardens," in Short Stories for Students, Gale, 2004.

Curt Guyette

Guyette is a longtime journalist. He received a bachelor of arts degree in English writing from the University of Pittsburgh. In this essay, Guyette discusses Boyle's ability to take a story based in fact and transform it into a work of literature.

In his short story "The Underground Gardens" — part of a collection published in 2001 titled After the Plague — author T. Coraghessan Boyle creates what appears to be a fable that is both beautifully written and extremely poignant. A man, inspired by love, begins digging. Using nothing but a pick, shovel, and wheelbarrow, the man — a poor, uneducated laborer — continues his back-breaking toil until he has created a sprawling underground home he hopes will so impress his beloved that she will take his callused hands in marriage. What could be more "fantastic," in the strictest sense of that word? It is like a rapturous dream, the stuff of pure fantasy. That sense of incredibility is carried through to the end as the author seems to opt for a climax that takes a sorrowful chronicle of romantic tragedy and transforms it into something pure and inspirational. Instead of concluding this story on a note of heartbreak when the woman runs from what she perceives as the insanity of the man's enterprise, the protagonist, his body beaten and bones broken but with his spirit still intact, envisions an even more elaborate underground world. Rather than succumb to despair and depression over the loss of his love, the spurned suitor begins clawing his way toward a vision even more impossibly grand than the one with which he began.

Upon reading this story, one is tempted to describe it as "fabulous," meaning that it explores a mythic world where the hero is capable of superhuman feats, much like Hercules performing his twelve labors. There is only one problem with depicting this tale in that way: "The Underground Gardens" is based in fact. There really was an Italian immigrant by the name of Baldasare Forestiere who, at the beginning of the last century, bought 70 acres of land in California with the intent of creating a vineyard. To his dismay, he learned too late that he had been duped into handing over his life's savings for a piece of property covered with a layer of hardpan rock just beneath the topsoil, making agriculture impossible. But he did not let that setback break his spirit. His body strengthened by years of labor digging subway tunnels in Boston and New York, he did construct an underground home beneath the thick sheet of hardpan with the hopes that his true love would be truly enamored with both his labors and its ingenious results. And, as with Boyle's story, the woman recoils at the thought of living underground and rejects his proposal of marriage. Boyle ends his story with Forestiere experiencing a vision so clear and precise and full-blown that it seems as if it could be divinely inspired. In reality, Forestiere worked for nearly 40 years to bring that vision to fruition, creating a subterranean wonderland of more than 90 rooms spread across seven acres. It is a marvelous, brilliantly conceived structure replete with fruit trees and grapevines, a fish-pond, grottoes, and a ballroom.

So, what is it that makes Boyle's story a piece of literature rather than a biographical sketch? As with other of his works, such as the novel The Road to Wellville, Boyle takes a real-life character and uses him to explore specific aspects of our society. In this case he touches on a number of issues, including the discrimination and degradation immigrants to this country faced in the past and, often, still face today. Like Forestiere, these people, through their labor and their creativity, rise above the prejudice they face to build a society that is better and stronger than the one that greeted them.

But "The Underground Gardens" is more than just a social critique. This story tackles a broader, more universal issue by asking and answering the question: what separates man from other animals. This issue is established in the first paragraph when Boyle writes this of Forestiere: "As a young man in Boston and New York he burrowed like a rodent beneath streets and rivers, scouring the walls of subway tubes and aqueducts, dropping his pick, lifting his shovel, mining dirt." Soon afterward, Boyle depicts the shanty — little more than a "glorified chicken coop," really — that Forestiere had constructed. Boyle writes:

It was a shelter that was all, a space that separated him from the animals, that reminded him he was a man and not a beast. Men are upright, his father told him when he was a boy, and they have dominion over the beasts. Men live in houses, don't they? And where do the beasts live, mio figlio? In the ground, no? In a hole."

Given this, it is possible to look upon a man like Forestiere as something less than human, an illiterate beast of burden toiling his entire life beneath the earth, clawing at soil to dig himself an elaborate burrow. He is a man who has no appreciation for the niceties of civilization. Only once does he seek out some form of entertainment, a visit to a burlesque show. But even that he can't enjoy because he so frets over the few cents he feels he has squandered over this lone night out.

In the end, not even love is redemptive. How can it be when it is not returned, even though it is epic and soul stirring? How else would one describe a love that would motivate a man to spend two years digging beneath the ground in an attempt to woo a woman who, at the very best, has more than her share of flaws? And when his beloved Ariadne rejects him because he lives in the ground like some animal and turns instead for marriage to a mean-spirited drunk, how does Forestiere attempt to win her back? With more digging. It borders on insanity, really. Boyle, who writes with beautifully vivid prose, describes with heart-breaking clarity how Forestiere hopes that this girl who is wholly unworthy of such magnificent devotion, this girl with whiskers like a cat and "hands like doughballs fried in lard," will gaze out her window to see his muscles and sinews flex as he sweats and strains to create the mute communication of a heart. It is all he has to offer, because he is unable to put his words down on paper and spell out his love in a letter.

In the end, what separates man from the animals is his ability to dream. A mole burrows into the ground to create shelter. That, too, is what Forestiere did. The difference is that he did it in the hopes that his efforts would win him the woman of his dreams. And when that failed, instead of caving in to depression, he became inspired simply by an idea itself. He dreamed not just of shelter — that he already had. He dreamed of creating a palace that would stand as a testament to his own particular genius. He dreamed of creating an underground paradise that would let the world know that he had not just survived and toiled during his time on this earth but had created something magnificent that would live on long after he departed. He dreamed of a legacy that would carry his name: Baldasare Forestiere's Underground Gardens. Then he fulfilled that dream, setting him apart not just from the animals but also from many of his fellow men. Few people ever dream with such grandeur, and fewer still ever achieve such greatness.

In the process of fulfilling his dream Baldasare Forestiere inspired others, including Boyle himself, who was so moved by the life's work of a poor immigrant that he created a beautiful and moving piece of literature that reads as if it were a fable.

Source: Curt Guyette, Critical Essay on "The Underground Gardens," in Short Stories for Students, Gale, 2004.

Jeff Hill

Hill is a freelance writer and editor who specializes in literature. In the following essay, Hill analyzes the contrasts between the aboveground and subterranean environments in "The Underground Gardens" and argues that these elements illustrate Baldasare's achievement of greater self-knowledge and independence.

"The Underground Gardens" opens with an epigraph that quotes Franz Kafka's story "The Burrow." It's a fitting introduction: "The Burrow" features an unnamed narrator (perhaps an animal, but with very human concerns) who, in typically drawn-out Kafka fashion, details his anxieties about his subterranean home. At times, his worries about the security of his burrow and the dangers that lie aboveground grow so extreme that he is unable to approach the opening that leads to the outside world.

Likewise, "The Underground Gardens" deals with the division between the world above and the world below. T. Coraghessan Boyle drives this point home with both the larger events of the story's plot and the smaller details of description. When combined, these elements create a rich story that contrasts high and low, up and down. The vertical positioning of people and things is stressed repeatedly. When linked to the larger ideas they stand for, the surface and subterranean worlds become important clues that lead to a deeper understanding of the story and, more specifically, the insight Baldasare gains at its conclusion.

A man buys a plot of inhospitable land. He falls in love. He builds an elaborate underground residence in hopes of winning his beloved, but he loses her. He ends with a vision of making an even more elaborate subterranean palace. These events are interesting in themselves, but what else is at stake? To arrive at an answer, it's necessary to consider larger ideas that might be implied in the concepts of above and below. In other words, if the surface and subterranean worlds are considered as symbols or metaphors, what do they mean?

Those things existing above the ground are generally linked to material success and a conventional domestic lifestyle that includes a comfortable home and a family. Initially, these elements — wealth, home, and marriage — are associated with independence, and they are the very things that Baldasare was denied in Sicily by virtue of his not being the eldest child. It could also be said that these are some of the key ingredients of the so-called American Dream that drew millions of immigrants to the United States.

The subterranean world is treated in two ways: Initially, it's considered a lesser, inhuman place. This is made clear in Baldasare's memories of his father's words:

Men are upright, his father had told him when he was a boy, and they have dominion over the beasts. Men live in houses, don't they? And where do beasts live, mio figlio? In the ground, no? In a hole.

But in the course of the story, the underground world takes on a different meaning: it becomes associated with an alternative, creative life that allows Baldasare to utilize and benefit from his true talents.

What makes Baldasare such an interesting character is that he is attracted by both the upper world and the lower one. Early in the story, he envisions his future home as a "house of four rooms and a porch set on a hill." The description is telling: His dream is not only to live atop the ground but to gain as much elevation as possible. The vineyard he intends to create is likewise a thing of the surface world. Though the vines grow from the soil, the description "seventy acres buried in grapes" emphasizes the plants' aboveground fruit.

There is another part to Baldasare's dream: a family. He pictures it along with his hilltop house — "his wife on the porch, his four sons and three daughters sprinting like colts across the yard." It's a picture-book vision of domestic bliss, and Baldasare clings to this family dream even after his vineyard proves unfeasible. Enter Ariadne. In Baldasare's mind, she's the woman on the porch. Her connection to the aboveground world is made clear by the many "upward" descriptions of her. When the couple walks down the street, Ariadne's height forces Baldasare to "reach up awkwardly" to take her arm. And, despite the weight that goes along with her "stout" size, his perception is that she "floated above her feet like one of the airships the Germans so prized." She also personifies the prosperity and happiness Baldasare expected to find in the United States: "She was the one," he tells himself. "She was the one he'd come to America for." Later he marvels at the "sweet flow of familiar phrases that dropped so easily from her supple American lips."

Then there is the issue of money. It could be argued that one of the reasons that Baldasare fixates on Ariadne is that she is associated with material success, at least compared with his own humble means. But her wealth is also an obstacle. Given Baldasare's poverty, wooing Ariadne does not seem much more likely than creating a vineyard on his hardpan acreage. His thoughts outline the problem specifically:

What could he offer her, a girl like that who'd come all the way from Chicago, Illinois, to live with her uncle, the prosperous Greek — a school-educated girl used to fine things and books.

To put it in common terms, Ariadne is "above" Baldasare in terms of wealth and social standing. But when he makes his attempt to overcome this obstacle, he does not go up, he goes down — literally. He constructs a large home in the only manner he has available to him — by carving it out of the earth.

In the process, Baldasare discovers that the subterranean world is not as subhuman as his father once declared. Baldasare initially justifies his underground life by saying that "he was just practical," and he notes how the hardpan soil is "impervious to the rain and sun, and more durable than any shingle or tile." But the aspect that most attracts him to the underworld is that it allows him to build and create in a way that was impossible on the surface. Art rather than practicality becomes his focus, as he compares his work to the great architecture of the past. "He could already see a hallway there, a broad grand hallway, straight as a plumb line and as graceful and sensible as the arches the Romans of antiquity put to such good use in their time." His designs steadily grow more elaborate. "When he completed a passage or a room or carved his way to the sky for light, he could already see the next passage and the next room beyond that." There is also a spiritual element to his creativity. He connects his dome-shaped cellar with "the apse of the cathedral in which he'd worshipped as a boy," and at the end of the story he raises his hand to an underground wall "as if to bless some holy place."

Though inspired in the underworld, Baldasare is still faced with the difficulty of integrating his subterranean existence with his romantic quest. At one point he declares that "he was digging for her, for Ariadne," but this is no simple task. To bring together his underground home and an aboveground woman Baldasare must unite two worlds that, throughout the story, are shown to be opposites.

Which is why his plans unravel. Ariadne is bound up with material success and its conventional trappings. She simply cannot conceive of a home in the ground and refuses to consider a marriage that would make her inhabit such a place. (Unlike the mythic Ariadne whose thread gives Theseus a way to escape from the labyrinth, this Ariadne leaves her suitor to his underworld maze.) Boyle masterfully expresses the up and down of this situation in the passage where Baldasare attempts to show Ariadne his home.

He'd become insistent, and he had his hand on her arm, trying to lead her down from the carriage. He wanted to tell her, but the words wouldn't come, and he tried to articulate it all through the pressure of his hand on her arm, tugging, as if the whole world depended on her getting down from that carriage — and it did, it did!

"Let go!" she cried, snatching her arm away.

He tried to reach for her again — "Please," he begged, "please" — but she jerked back from him so violently the carriage nearly buckled on its springs.

Tug as he might, Baldasare cannot bring the two worlds — above and below — together. This is made doubly clear when he attempts to transfer his subterranean talents up to ground level. In excavating the valentine in the vacant lot, he exposes his greatest gift — his ability to dig — to the surface dwellers. It's to no avail: his work goes unacknowledged by Ariadne, and he receives a beating for his efforts.

These events give an interesting twist on Boyle's vertical metaphors: Ariadne and others in the aboveground world are people of the surface — not only because they desire conventional comforts but because their decisions are ruled by appearances, what's visible on the surface. Ariadne judges Baldasare solely on his wealth as expressed in a large, aboveground house. She gives no consideration to his character or his other accomplishments. Her desire to maintain the appearance of success leads her to choose a man who has "always got money in his pocket" despite the possibility that he's an alcoholic who is "mean as the devil."

These elements are part of a shift in attitude that becomes more pronounced as the story progresses. The tone of the descriptions begins to suggest that perhaps it is those in the upper world that are flawed, rather than the ground dweller. This can be seen when Baldasare ascends "two stories above the ground" to Siagris's walkup residence to pick up Ariadne for their first date. He's greeted by a grim and unpleasant atmosphere rather than "the fine things" he had previously imagined:

Up here, inside, it was even hotter. The Siagris children lay about like swatted flies, and Mrs. Siagris, her hair like some wild beast clawing at her scalp, poked her head around the corner from the kitchen. It was too hot to smile, so she grimaced instead and pulled her head back out of sight.

The term "beast" plays off the words that Baldasare's father used when dismissing the creatures of the underworld. The scene turns his thoughts on their head and reveals that life can be a beastly affair aboveground, even for "the prosperous Greek." Indeed, the story implies that those farther up the social hierarchy in Fresno are in some sense deficient or diseased. Obesity is common among this group: Siagris's shirt sticks to "the bulge of his belly"; Hiram Broadbent is a "[b]ig, fat man." After her arrival Ariadne grows so large that "she had to walk with a waddle," and she's afflicted with blotchy skin and a perpetual cold.

If the surface world and its inhabitants are flawed, what can be said of Baldasare? The metaphoric implication is that he is "deep," as compared to the superficial people at ground level. Physical appearance is certainly not a high priority for him: Ariadne's "imperfections" seem to accentuate his resolve rather than reducing it. But the depth of his character is better expressed by the insight he achieves at the conclusion of the story.

Rather than being demoralized by his loss of Ariadne and yielding to the "life of disillusionment," he finds new purpose in his vision of the Underground Gardens. He recognizes that love and matrimony were not his real goals after all. Instead, he has decided to cultivate his creative, unconventional existence while abandoning his previous dreams of material wealth and domesticity. Instead of being a monument to his beloved, the Underground Gardens become an end in themselves.

So self-knowledge becomes Baldasare's reward. This fits well with the theme of subterranean digging. It could be said that his excavations serve as a symbol for digging inside himself, finding his true emotions, and discovering what he finds most important. In psychoanalytical terms, it could be said that he mines his subconscious to come to a better understanding of himself and his desires.

Does this mean that he has completely abandoned the American Dream that inspired him originally? Not entirely, because even though he has given up on marriage and seems less concerned with gaining material wealth, another of his goals remains intact. He wants to control his own destiny. "He'd dreamed of independence," the story states at one point, and the vision of the Underground Gardens is certainly a move toward doing things his own way.

The main change that has taken place by the end of the story is that he has rejected the superficial trappings of independence. Baldasare's revised American Dream is not based on getting rich or on being a respectable family man. It's about having the freedom to build a monumental creation so that people could "see what he'd accomplished in his time on earth." Or, more accurately, what he'd accomplished beneath the earth, because it's the essential, underlying things that most inspire him.

Source: Jeff Hill, Critical Essay on "The Underground Gardens," in Short Stories for Students, Gale, 2004.

What Do I Read Next?

• In "The Underground Gardens," Baldasare lives underground, as his father once told him the animals do. In Boyle's first collection of short stories, The Descent of Man (1979), each story examines humanity's reversion to an animal-like state. This quirky collection of stories includes a woman who falls in love with an ape, a man who risks physical harm to win an eating contest, and a group of pillaging Norsemen who burn books — which represent a threat to their barbarian lifestyle.
• Boyle's novel East Is East (1991) tells the story of Hiro Tanaka, a Japanese man who comes to the United States to try to find his American father. Like Baldasare, Hiro has visions of finding a new life in America, where he thinks that a mixed-race man such as himself will be accepted. His dreams, however, are thwarted when he lands in Georgia and experiences racism, among other challenges.
• Boyle's novel The Tortilla Curtain (1995) focuses mainly on two couples in Southern California — an affluent American family and an illegal immigrant family from Mexico. The book explores the lifestyles, attitudes, and challenges of these two couples, as well as the struggle to keep immigrants out of America, which was itself founded by immigrants.
• Italo Calvino was one of the most quirky Italian writers of the twentieth century. His collection of short stories, Gli amori difficili (1970) was translated into English by William Weaver, Archibald Colquhoun, and Peggy Wright as Difficult Loves (1984). This collection explores the idea of love in all of its forms.
• Don't Tell Mama!: The Penguin Book of Italian American Writing (2002), edited by Regina Barreca, contains selections of Italian American fiction and nonfiction writing from the 1800s to the present. The nearly one hundred contributors include such well-known figures as David Baldacci, Don DeLillo, Jay Leno, Mario Puzo, and Ray Romano.
• Boyle has noted in interviews that one of his professional influences was Latin American writer Gabriel García Márquez. In García Márquez's collection Doce cuentos peregrinos, published in Madrid in 1992, the stories feature the trials and tribulations of Latin American characters abroad in Europe. Translated by Edith Grossman as Strange Pilgrims: Twelve Stories, the collection was published by Knopf in 1993.