For much of the novel, the brilliant friend seems to be Lila; she is intelligent, capable of mastering any subject (even Latin) without attending school; she is brave, creative, enterprising; with adolescence, she also blossoms into a stunning young woman.
Elena, the first-person narrator and co-protagonist alongside Lila, has been enthralled by her since elementary school, yearning to resemble her, both in body and mind.

I became fixated on Lila, who had very thin, agile legs, and was always moving them, kicking even when she sat next to the teacher (...) I decided that I had to model myself on that girl, never lose sight of her, even if she got annoyed and pushed me away.
(...) I trained myself to accept Lila's superiority in everything with good grace, and even her bullying

.
Through Elena's words, we follow—with a touch of envy—the childhood and adolescence of the two friends and their many peers in a working-class neighborhood of Naples: violent, cruel, yet vital and authentic.
Is the novel, then, the narrative of a friendship between Lila and Elena, and with it, of a social milieu? Toward the end of the book, we realize the theme is something else entirely: the author speaks of detachment from one's origins as a consequence of education, of opening up to new cultural and linguistic horizons.
When Lila, still an adolescent, marries the neighborhood's wealthy grocer, securing a position in the eyes of the local community, the two friends share a clarifying conversation—for themselves, and for the reader as well.
Elena is excelling in high school and declares, with “a nervous little laugh,” that she will abandon her studies once she earns her diploma.
Lila replies, curt and resolute:

you're my brilliant friend, you have to be the best of them all, boys and girls (...) you must study always

.
In that moment, Elena realizes how they had ended up “in two different worlds,” despite living in the same neighborhood, despite having shared the same childhood.
Elena had drawn from Lila the drive to study, but schooling had become her own personal wealth.

I had grown up with those boys and girls (our peers in the neighborhood), I considered their behavior normal, their violent language was my own.
With them, I couldn't use anything I learned every day; I had to restrain myself, somehow demean myself.
(...) Yet that very celebration (her friend's wedding) confirmed that Lila—the only person I still felt was indispensable despite our diverging lives—no longer belonged to us, and with her gone, any mediation between me and those young people (...) had run dry.

The story of Lila and Elena’s friendship provides the occasion for a rare reflection.
In common sentiment, schooling is always seen as performing a positive role, of emancipation and spiritual uplift.
It undoubtedly is, one hopes, yet too often we overlook how education alienates us from our world of origin, causing us to lose our anthropological roots and squandering values and outlooks that are not always entirely negative.
What will remain of Naples in a society that demands complete homogenization? Moreover, change is difficult and tormented for the person undergoing it.
Elena, in fact, does not feel superior to her friend or to her peers; quite the opposite, she experiences this detachment with surprise and anguish, struggling to attain an awareness that she has long denied to herself.
Her romantic entanglements reflect this very inner conflict: she is in love with Nino, another brilliant high school student, yet she gets engaged to Antonio, a decent young man, but alas, so ignorant.

Why, above all, hadn't I stopped to say to Nino stay, come to the reception (...) let's talk among ourselves, let's dig ourselves a den to keep us out of this way Pasquale drives, out of his vulgarity, out of the violent tones of Carmela and Enzo, and even—yes, even—of Antonio? "

The theme of detachment is not tackled through a faux-narrative approach that is in truth sociological and prescriptive.
The author develops a multifaceted cast of characters, each delineated with effectiveness and psychological depth.
Likewise, the neighborhood is described with vibrancy and emotional investment, while never concealing its insular, stagnant, and violent nature.
Judgments are not handed down from the heights of an assumed social and cultural superiority, nor does the prose adopt justifying or populist tones.
The literary merits—the characters, Lila in particular, the setting, and the plain, elegant prose—make one forgiving of the narrative’s weaknesses: a slow, at times repetitive pace, and a plot left hanging, perhaps to herald future volumes.
Yet serialized novels ought to conclude with an atmosphere of suspense, rather than merely an ellipsis.

Why read it? Lila’s figure is fascinating, the writing refined and elegant.

My Brilliant Friend