Primo Levi’s “A Tranquil Star”

From The New Yorker's archive: a short story that describes the life and death of a star called al-Ludra.  ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌   View in browser | Update your preferences     Fiction "A Tranquil Star" "Al-Ludra oscillated, but not regularly: not like a pendulum; rather, like someone who is at a loss between two choices." By Primo Levi Italo Calvino once referred to the novelist and memoirist Primo Levi as "one of the most important and gifted writers of our time." An Italian chemist and Holocaust survivor, Levi was the author of fourteen books, including "The Periodic Table" and "Survival in Auschwitz." Since Levi's death, in 1987, The New Yorker has published eight of his works of fiction and poetry. In 2007, the magazine excerpted the title story from Levi's posthumous collection "A Tranquil Star." The tale describes, in vivid, granular detail, the life and death of a star called al-Ludra, as observed through the eyes of various astronomers. But it's also a story about the fine boundaries of the spoken word. "For a discussion of stars our language is inadequate and seems laughable, as if someone were trying to plow with a feather," Levi writes. "It's a language that was born with us, suitable for describing objects more or less as large and as long-lasting as we are; it has our dimensions, it's human." To compose a narrative about a star—and to make it as relevant as any depiction of a notable figure or close acquaintance—is no small feat. Levi balances the astonishing with the wonted, tracing the minute details of matter that appears immutable, and yet, like our own history, is ever changing. How does the mind comprehend the uncanny and the otherworldly? The tale ingeniously challenges us to consider how we might react to an unimaginable catastrophe. If a body ruptures on the other side of the universe, do we, as human beings residing in our own provincial spheres, truly possess the capacity to perceive the rippling aftermath? With subtle dexterity, Levi presents an allegory about the relationship of language to the imagination, and to reality itself—artfully offering a meditation on the beauty, and the cacophony, of the unknowable.   —Erin Overbey, archive editor More from the Archive     Fiction "Quaestio de Centauris" Published in 2015: "Despite his two hundred and sixty years, his appearance was youthful, in both his human and his equine aspects." By Primo Levi     Fiction "Bear Meat" Published in 2007: "I stayed outside, on the wooden porch, to consider the frozen mystery of the seracs at my feet until everything had vanished behind silent ghosts of fog, and then I went in." By Primo Levi You're receiving this e-mail because you signed up for the New Yorker Classics newsletter. Was this e-mail forwarded to you? Sign up.   Unsubscribe | Manage your e-mail preferences | Send newsletter feedback | View our privacy policy    The New Yorker may earn a portion of sales from products and services that are purchased through links in our newsletters as part of our affiliate partnerships with retailers.    Copyright © Condé Nast 2022. One World Trade Center, New York, NY 10007. All rights reserved.