This is 51: Debut Novelist Eugenio Volpe Responds to The Oldster Magazine Questionnaire
"My entire life has been one long, tire-screeching skid of arrested development, fishtailing my way around the responsibilities of adulthood."
From the time I was 10, I’ve been obsessed with what it means to grow older. I’m curious about what it means to others, of all ages, and so I invite them to take “The Oldster Magazine Questionnaire.”
Here, Eugenio Volpe, debut author of the novel I, Caravaggio, responds. - Sari Botton
P.S. A reminder that in my book, everyone who is alive and aging is considered an Oldster, and that every contributor to this magazine is the oldest they have ever been, which is interesting new territory for them—and interesting to me, the 58-year-old who publishes this. Oldster is an ongoing study of the experience of aging at every phase of life.
When you see a piece featuring someone younger than you, try to remember when you were that age and how monumental it felt. Bring some curiosity to reading about how the person being featured is experiencing that age. Or, if you prefer, wait for the next piece featuring someone in your age group. (Last week I published a questionnaire from 86-year-old painter/retired psychologist Bella Ruth Bader!) Not every piece will speak to every reader. I’m doing my best to cover a lot of ground and to foster intergenerational conversation. Please work with me.
Eugenio Volpe is a winner of the PEN Discovery Award in Fiction. His debut novel I, Caravaggio (Clash Books, 2023) is a modernized portrayal of the baroque master’s turbulent launch into superstardom. Volpe’s writing can be found in Gulf Coast, Massachusetts Review, Hobart, New York Tyrant, and elsewhere. His essay “Jesus Kicks His Oedipus Complex” was a notable in Best American Essays 2021. He teaches at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles and surfs somewhere south of Hermosa Pier.
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How old are you?
51.
Is there another age you associate with yourself in your mind? If so, what is it? And why, do you think?
I was a late bloomer in all aspects of maturity: emotionally, intellectually, and hormonally. I’m still a tad sophomoric, wide-eyed, and baby-faced. I’ve never acted my age. I’ve never looked my age. My entire life has been one long, tire-screeching skid of arrested development, fishtailing my way around the responsibilities of adulthood. I hit the metaphorical brakes on “growing up” when I was seventeen after my parents divorced. I’ve only experienced three adult episodes in my life: losing a best friend, becoming a father, and losing my mother. These rites of passage occurred at 34, 41, and 49. Let’s weigh those out and call me 37-and-a-half.
I hit the metaphorical brakes on “growing up” when I was seventeen after my parents divorced. I’ve only experienced three adult episodes in my life: losing a best friend, becoming a father, and losing my mother. These rites of passage occurred at 34, 41, and 49. Let’s weigh those out and call me 37-and-a-half.
Do you feel old for your age? Young for your age? Just right? Are you in step with your peers?
Physically, I’m outlasting my peers. I have a decent head of hair. I do five hundred pushups a day. I surf like a 30something. Financially, most of my peers have lapped me around the track. I’m a bit vain. So, I’d rather be fit and handsome with less money in my 401K. In terms of financial literacy, I’m a ‘tween. Politically, I’ve never felt in step with my Gen X peers. In high school, most of them worshipped Ronald Reagan. The son of a waitress and union laborer, I was always staunchly proletariat. Politically, I’m more in step with my Gen Z college students.
I never felt in step with my peers aesthetically either. As kids, I was listening to the Dead Kennedys while most of them were rocking to Bon Jovi. My mom sent me to elementary school with homemade eggplant in my lunchbox. My classmates were eating baloney and mayo on Wonder Bread. Today, I’m more existentially in step with the old Italian women I watch on the YouTube show Pasta Grannies. I long for my coming years of spending days in the garden, trimming herbs and artichokes in preparation of the evening’s pasta. Not to mention glasses of vino starting at 11:30 AM.
What do you like about being your age?
One of my dearest friends died when we were in our 30s. I’ve liked being my age every year since, even if it sometimes comes with a healthy amount of survivor’s guilt. To quote Junior Soprano, “It’s like that game we used to play as kids. Crack the Whip. You run around like an idiot, holding hands as tight as you can, and then the line snaps. Somebody lets go…and you're next.”
What is difficult about being your age?
Having a 9-year-old son. I have more than enough energy for it. We have a blast. We wrestle in the living room. Play one v. one soccer matches. Recite E. E. Cummings’ poems together. I grew up with a father who was a former, three-time Mr. Massachusetts bodybuilding champion. I’ve come to value the benefits of marveling at my old man as a kid. We boxed together. Surfed together. I don’t want my son growing up with a geriatric. I hit the gym for his sake. I’d love to drink martinis on the regular, but I don’t. I want to see my son turn 30. I’ll be 70. This is the difficult part of being the father of a 9-year-old at my age. The math of it gives me anxiety. I want to be active when he’s an adult. I want to knock him around the soccer pitch when he’s in his 20s. It could happen. My family has a mix of Jack LaLanne and Keith Richards genes. My mom, a lifelong Stones fanatic, lived twice the life of Keith Richards, and she made it to 70. My dad is 77 and still has a six-pack. He still goes whitewater kayaking. He could probably still knock me around the boxing ring.
One of my dearest friends died when we were in our 30s. I’ve liked being my age every year since, even if it sometimes comes with a healthy amount of survivor’s guilt. To quote Junior Soprano, “It’s like that game we used to play as kids. Crack the Whip. You run around like an idiot, holding hands as tight as you can, and then the line snaps. Somebody lets go…and you're next.”
What is surprising about being your age, or different from what you expected, based on what you were told?
My grandmother died in her 80s with a beautiful head of black hair. My mother’s two brothers (61 and 71) still have great heads of hair. Hair is an alpha thing in my family, like lions’ manes. My Uncle Al always had the locks of Hercules as depicted on an ancient urn. My Uncle Tom has the squid ink color of my grandmother. I had always wanted to keep my curls until at least 50. I’ve got some grays, but I’m definitely rocking an alpha mane. Aside from marrying way over my head, my hair is the only time I’ve exceeded expectations in life.
What has aging given you? Taken away from you?
Nothing more than a few strands of chestnut brown hair. But also, I used to be heavy into martial arts. I was highly competitive. I was amazing with my feet. I was highly flexible. I used to be able to do a split, both ways, side and front. Now, I can only do a front split. I had a world-class roundhouse kick, but now my roundhouse kick sucks. I need to start doing some stretching. Maybe I could get it back. But really, what am I going to do with a roundhouse kick these days? Other than my roundhouse kicks, life just keeps giving me things. Waves. L.A. sunshine. My rosemary bush. My thyme. Artichokes. Every night, I get to cook dinner for my family. We sing along to the Stones, Sinatra, Gordon Lightfoot, MF Doom, whomever. Every second of the day with my wife and son is a gift.
I want to see my son turn 30. I’ll be 70. This is the difficult part of being the father of a 9-year-old at my age. The math of it gives me anxiety. I want to be active when he’s an adult. I want to knock him around the soccer pitch when he’s in his 20s. It could happen. My family has a mix of Jack LaLanne and Keith Richards genes.
How has getting older affected your sense of yourself, or your identity?
Other than my Italian heritage, I try not to have a fixed identity or fixed perception of myself. Being ideologically and conceptually fluid is the key to staying existentially young. I practice Socrates’ admission of ignorance, even regarding my own selfdom. It keeps me youthful and wise. I’ve been an avid surfer since I was 14, but I have never identified as a surfer. I’ve been a writer for twenty years, and I’ve never identified as a writer. In fact, surfers and writers are some of my least favorite people to be around.
What are some age-related milestones you are looking forward to? Or ones you “missed,” and might try to reach later, off-schedule, according to our culture and its expectations?
I didn’t start writing until my early 30s. I graduated with an MFA at 34. Shortly after, I blew a golden chance to land a top agent. I went surfing instead of finishing the requested manuscript. I was living in Santa Barbara at the time. For decades, I’d dreamed of moving there from Boston to surf its point breaks. I prioritized surfing Rincon over writing. A few months later, my grandmother passed away, and then my buddy a few months after that. I got a divorce. I stopped writing for a few years. I got depressed and put on a bunch of weight. Eventually, I surfed myself out of it. Then the writing picked up again. I was in my late 30s.
My favorite authors, Grace Paley and Don DeLillo, got “late” starts, so I cut myself some slack, but I always pressured myself into this bullshit milestone of publishing before I was 40. That didn’t happen, but I met my current wife at 41. We wanted to start a family immediately, so I prioritized writing over surfing (barely). Now that I’m a debut author at 51, I mostly feel embarrassed and ashamed that it took me this long to get my shit together.
What has been your favorite age so far, and why? Would you go back to this age if you could?
I don’t have a favorite age, but I do have a favorite era. The older I get, the more I miss it. I find myself dreaming about it – sitting at a dinner table surrounded by my entire family. My parents. My sister. My grandmother. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. Second cousins. Practically every Sunday at my grandmother’s apartment or an aunt’s house, eating pasta, listening to stories and jokes, and breathing secondhand cigarette smoke. I miss holidays of thirty people crammed into a living room. The food was glorious. My aunt and uncle owned an Italian restaurant. We worked and feasted there, too. It was the golden era of my family.
I would like to go back to that time, and bring my wife and son with me. I want Sara and Ronan to be at the dinner table with my parents prior to their divorce. I want them to eat my grandmother’s cooking. I want them to meet everyone who has passed away. I want to bring them to my aunt and uncle’s restaurant. When I cook for Sara and Ronan, this is the age that I visit in my mind while I’m stirring my soffritto or straining my spaghetti.
My grandmother died in her 80s with a beautiful head of black hair. My mother’s two brothers (61 and 71) still have great heads of hair. Hair is an alpha thing in my family, like lions’ manes. My Uncle Al always had the locks of Hercules as depicted on an ancient urn. My Uncle Tom has the squid ink color of my grandmother. I had always wanted to keep my curls until at least 50. I’ve got some grays, but I’m definitely rocking an alpha mane.
Is there someone who is older than you, who makes growing older inspiring to you? Who is your aging idol and why?
My father’s dedication to health and fitness inspires me. Also, the joy he derives from nature. It’s something I have passed on to my son. I also look up to both of my mother’s brothers and their dedication to family (and their hair). Their love of family. They’re the ones hosting family dinners now. They go full Italian. Numerous courses. They take care of everyone, gastronomically and emotionally. In my family, those two things are not mutually exclusive.
What aging-related adjustments have you recently made, style-wise, beauty-wise, health-wise?
I bleached my teeth last summer when my novel came out. I bleached them for the launch party and bought a pair of matching white jeans. You can’t drink wine for a couple of days after bleaching your teeth, so I’ll probably never do it again.
My favorite authors, Grace Paley and Don DeLillo, got “late” starts, so I cut myself some slack, but I always pressured myself into this bullshit milestone of publishing before I was 40. That didn’t happen, but I met my current wife at 41. We wanted to start a family immediately, so I prioritized writing over surfing (barely). Now that I’m a debut author at 51, I mostly feel embarrassed and ashamed that it took me this long to get my shit together.
What’s an aging-related adjustment you refuse to make, and why?
If it prolongs my writing, surfing, or lovemaking, I’ll do it.
What’s your philosophy on celebrating birthdays as an adult? How do you celebrate yours?
From age 2 to 49, my mother would cook whatever I wanted for my birthday. I’d choose either manicotti or eggplant parmesan. She would also call me at the exact time I was born: 9:13 A.M. She’s been gone for two years. No Italian place in L.A. (sorry, Bestia and Felix, but you don’t come close) could compare to Ma, so Sara takes me to Fishing with Dynamite, which is close to where we live. It’s a great seafood place with New England roots, so it makes me feel nostalgic. I miss my mother, and I miss the Atlantic. It has way more personality than the Pacific.
Congratulations Eugenio Volpe! In my mind, I add you to the list of late starters I created a while back as a reminder and inspiration.
This evocative response to the questionnaire, at times turning a question around on itself, showing the reader (and future responders) there's more than a straight answer possible to the questions made me chuckle a few times.
As a side note, my father, who had his first solo art show when he was 60+ and me at 57, was 70 when I was thirteen. Having a 70-year-old dad at 30 isn't bad in my book. And yours, well, this piece tells me to read it.
This was delightful. I appreciated Eugenio’s admission: “I’ve been an avid surfer since I was 14, but I have never identified as a surfer. I’ve been a writer for twenty years, and I’ve never identified as a writer. In fact, surfers and writers are some of my least favorite people to be around.” I’ve felt this way often in my own life, and for me, it’s a somewhat unsettling experience, like what is wrong with me? Glad to know I’m not alone in this. 😬