In this audaciously original debut, a teenager is sent to juvenile prison off the coast of Naples where he dreams—and writes—of a better future
Bringing 90s Naples to life, this virtuosic Italian novel is an extraordinarily moving and thought-provoking look at criminal justice and life in an isolated juvenile detention centre
Zeno is 15, a child in the eyes of the law, but he grew up long ago in the dusty heat of a crime-riddled neighbourhood in Naples. Winding down cobbled streets on his motorbike, he started his career as a petty thief to supplement his mother's income and, every now and then, take his girlfriend Natalina out for pizza in the city’s starlit piazzas. A quick hand at pickpocketing and selling drugs, Zeno is confronted by another boy from a rival gang who has been tasked with taking out the competition. He shoots three times, the boy drops dead, and Zeno is sent to Nisida, an infamous juvenile prison-island off the Neapolitan coast.
Separated from all he loves by the cruel, glittering sea, with a cell window looking out at the distant beaches, Zeno promises a prison school teacher he’ll write down the story of his life in exchange for a visit home at Christmas. But the sea has eyes everywhere, and someone on the outside wants revenge.
Boldly original and deeply humane, So People Know It’s Me unleashes Zeno’s luminous, unguarded and defiant voice – dreaming of a fragile future beyond Nisida’s walls. Translated from a unique blend of Italian and Neapolitan dialect, this is a mesmerising and powerful debut novel, the winner of the Nabokov Prize, borne out of the author’s own work as a criminal lawyer called upon to defend minors.
Release date:
May 12, 2026
Publisher:
Pushkin Press
Print pages:
128
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There’s a survegliante on my wing who’s a real zero, and that’s the truth. His name’s Costantino and he’s barely got any teeth. Just two in his whole head. He’s butt ugly. A survegliante’s what you on the outside would call a guard, but to me he’s a survegliante. You see what I’m saying? So I made this promise to Mrs Martina, our teacher here in Nisida. Our Italian teacher. I promised to write down what I’m thinking, get it on paper. She says if I do, she’ll say nice stuff about me to the Warden so I’ll get a furlough at Christmas. Two days, almost two whole days: evening on the 24th, and then the 25th. But then she reads it for me, to make sure it’s clear. So I’m telling you right now, someone’s correcting me after. Cause I’m no cheater.
In my life, I’ve stole, dealt, even killed somebody, but I never cheated nobody, cause I got my pride and most of all my honor. And this is the only way I know how to talk. So, Teach, let’s get things straight. I’ll write everything you want me to. Then you have who you want read it. But leave in a couple mistakes, so people know it’s me. It’s important it’s me. If not, I won’t know myself when I look in the mirror. You do the commas, though. I don’t know how to do the commas, you know I don’t like them. Periods got more pride.
octoBer 23, 1991 So my name’s Zeno. A strange name—’nu nomm’ strano. First cause it starts with Z that’s last in the alphabet. If it was up to me, I’d of chose something better, some- thing scary, Rambo, maybe, something American. Or something starting with A, cause A’s always first, so that makes it best. But then, Teach, you told me Zeno’s nice. That it’s out of a book, some famous character, some guy who smokes and smokes and smokes, just like me, and he never quits, though he tries like crazy. Poor guy, he’s worse off than me. But I’m not trying to quit, cause I look good when I smoke, plus if I don’t got a cigarette, I don’t know what to do with my hands. Been smoking since I was eleven. You also said I had to read the book about “Zeno who smokes,” and that I need to quit smoking, cause it’s bad for me. Not now though. I don’t got the time. Some other time I’ll read it. Promise. Don’t worry.
So I’m in here, the opposite of out there. I’m in the Nisida Juvenile Detention Center cause I killed somebody, shot him, that is. I mean, you don’t need a gun to kill somebody, there’s knives, or your bare hands, or you can wear gloves, or there’s bombs, or you can kick somebody in the head. Plenty of choices to kill somebody. Not so many to die. I fired three times, just sorta at him and he fell over, all bloody. I was on my scooter and it was crazy hot out. I escaped into Forcella, but they caught me cause everybody saw me—it was morning. They picked me up on Vico Carbonari. And they went and told my mom a few hours later, without me there. I don’t know the dead guy’s name, maybe he had a good name, better than mine. He wanted to shoot me and I did it first, cause I know how to use a piece, but I can’t tell you who taught me. When I got here, the prison penguin, the nun, she told me it was pointless to kill him cause now he was free and I was in jail. But you tell me: who should die first, me or him? So I told this penguin: “You don’t know he’s free! Maybe there’s prisons after, what do you know, Nun, you’re not dead. You’re still alive, unfortunately. So go screw yourself.” That upset the penguin pretty good and she said to find out about “after,” I had to talk with Don Vicienzo, the prison priest. But he’s a liar, that guy, he’s always talking crap. “After,” to me, is what there is when you die. And no one knows, not even priests. No one’s ever been, but people just make up a bunch of stupid shit anyway. So I really don’t give a shit about after, Teach. Just think about now. That’s good enough for me.
They put me in Nisida, and I really don’t like it, cause it’s an island. Like Sicily, only littler and no cities. I wanted to be in Santa Maria Capua Vetere. It’s on a road, not the water. In Santa Maria Capua Vetere I could get out all the notes I want, throw them out the window, and someone could toss answers back at me from the sidewalk. I could even keep up my business—but I ain’t writing about that. I could send kisses to my Natalina, my girlfriend—I’ll tell you more about her later! But they put me in here, on this isolated island. I told the Warden if a place opens up in Santa Maria Capua Vetere they should transfer me, not Totore, cause he’s a bastard and don’t deserve it. Plus, Totore goes home next year. Me, I got a good two and a half years left in here, by the sea, with all the other juvies, cause I’m fifteen.
After that, you’ll send me to Poggioreale Prison—August 3, 1994, to be exact—and you know it too, Boss. Cause that’s what’s written down, and things written down are a real bitch. Nice gift they’ll get me for my birthday, huh? When I’m legal. The sea’s useless here at Nisida. What’s useful for us is what we can really use, otherwise we might as well just go and kill ourselves, and that ain’t fair. And you won’t even let us swim in the sea, cause you think we’ll try and escape! So we only get to look at it. Me, I don’t know how to swim, I swear. I don’t want to escape. Just get wet, is all. Use a raft, those floaty things. Boss, if you read this, and a place opens up at Santa Maria Capua Vetere, keep me in mind, I’m always available.
In Forcella, where we live, there’s a lot of whores and it’s not like you can hide it. You see a whole bunch of them out there. They’re standing around, each by their building, at their regular time. Everybody knows them, even little kids. But the ones who know them best live in the rich neighborhoods. These guys pretend like they don’t know whores exist. They tell everybody all that exists is mom-women and wife-women. But that ain’t true. Everybody knows there’s something else besides. And I’m fine with my mom being something else besides and that she does all three together. She hasn’t sent me word since I been in here, over a year now. But Teach, you told me I can go home two days at Christmas, the evening of the 24th and the 25th, and that’s so great, cause it means she didn’t forget me. You’re always saying nobody ever forgets their kids. But that ain’t true, cause time passes even for moms and everybody’s got their own life and their own problems. You always got your daughter right there keeping an eye on her, so you can’t forget her. But not my mom. Maybe first she forgets one of my eyes, then the other, then my nose, legs, arms, till she has to put me back together again inside her head. I hope she looks at my photo some- times so she can remember me. But my father, I really don’t give a fuck if he remembers me. I don’t know where he is now.
No, the truth is I do know, and so do you. Everybody knows. The social worker in here—she’s stupid—she’s always saying I should write my dad. A letter. So I pretend I don’t know how to write. And please don’t say no different. Teach, you said the social worker’s stupid too, but this time she’s also right. So I promised I’d write him a letter. But not now. Before he was in Poggioreale, then they put him in Bergamo, still in jail, never out. I never heard of Bergamo. But it’s up there, in Northern Italy, you told me, and it’s windy and foggy and cold. You said it’s awful in the North. You think it sucks up there, huh? I got a sister who was a whore too, for a little while, not too long, and then she just ended up a wife. I can’t tell you the guy’s name she married. I could get killed if I do. Let’s call him Baldy. Him I can’t stand. I didn’t go to the wedding, my mom neither—we weren’t invited. Baldy told my sister—her name’s Vittoria—that when I get out she’s not allowed to talk to me. But I don’t give a shit, and I’m talking to her even if he says no. Before this guy, I took care of Vittoria and Mom, with my business.
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