Like most people of his generation, Camilleri grew up in a patriarchal environment which offered him little in the way of artistic exposure, but despite the limited resources at his disposal, he developed a deep appreciation for art and literature early on in life.
“I was happiest at the Oratorju Don Bosco, where the Salesians would organise fun activities revolving around sports and drama,” says Camilleri of his childhood in Victoria, Gozo. “Sadly, my father didn’t approve of their approach, so I had to attend catechism lessons taught by strict nuns where expressing one’s opinions was not allowed. So when I exclaimed that it was unfair for dead babies to go to limbo, I was reprimanded for being impertinent.” It was obvious, even then, that Camilleri’s social conscience would be one of his defining features.
When he was just 13, a new educational programme aimed at Gozitan women was launched on Rediffusion, the equivalent of today’s radio. Women were encouraged to come forward and share their problems and experiences, which was unheard of at a time when they were neither seen nor heard, especially in Gozo.
When the producers decided to introduce some literature, the late poet Gorg Pisani, knowing he was a gifted writer, suggested they approach Camilleri. “I started writing a novella a week, all of which were love stories. At that age, I had no life experience, so the stories were very superficial,” he recalls. “Writing them gave me some satisfaction, but I could feel that something was missing.”
An early start
One day three years later he heard a commotion in the street outside his window. “I saw police officers dragging away a man who was shouting in the street. At the time, if you suffered from mental illness and had an episode, they would just take you to a mental institution, where you’d likely remain for life,” he explains.
This incident shocked Camilleri and he came to the realisation that what his work was missing was the problems and injustices that exist in society.
However, it was only when he enrolled at St Michael’s College of Education with the aim of becoming a teacher that his literary horizons really began to widen. “The college was run by the De La Salle Brothers, most of whom were Oxford scholars who curated an incredible library,” he reminisces.
“They not only provided us with an education, but also taught us to always strive to experiment and discover more.” That was also when Camilleri met the late Judge Philip Sciberras, who at the time was also a teacher who shared his love of literature. “Every summer, he would go on holiday and bring back a suitcase full of books which I would borrow,” says Camilleri. “I was suddenly exposed to the great Russian authors, which were banned in Malta back then.”
It was during this time that Camilleri started experimenting with his writing. “I was no longer interested in plotted short stories, but wanted to write open-ended novellas,” he shares.
“To this day, I am more interested in introducing an incident and then observing how different characters react in that situation. Human beings are very complex creatures, especially once you tap into their psychology, and I don’t presume to know how their stories should end.”
He admits to being full of contradictions and recalls being called a gentle rebel by Oliver Friggieri, who was a friend and fellow member of Ghaqda Kittieba tal-Malti. Friggieri would go on to use the phrase in his famous poem Ribell Gentili, which he dedicated to his deceased son.
The first time Camilleri truly indulged his rebellious nature was in 1973, when he wrote a play for Holy Week which broke all the rules in the book. “It was a scandal!” he smiles. “You have to bear in mind that Holy Week plays were very serious and always dealt with the Passion of Christ, but I was young and craved innovation.
“So I introduced dance and music, and made the main character a Russian revolutionary based on Manoel Dimech. The message of the play was that you cannot affect change through bloodshed, so I also projected video footage of the Vietnam War.”
Needless to say, many were horrified by the liberties Camilleri had taken, but that play was to kickstart a new phase in his writing career. “I live by Herman Melville’s words that it is better to fail in originality than to succeed in imitation. I’d have been more successful had I imitated instead of forged my own path, but I would have lost any self-respect I had,” he admits.
After years of experimenting with different genres, Camilleri returned to his first love — the novella — but didn’t seek publication until he ran into his old friend Oliver Friggieri a few years ago. Two decades had passed since they had last met, and Friggieri wondered why Camilleri wasn’t publishing his work.
“He asked me to send him a collection of novellas, which he very kindly edited within two weeks,” recalls Camilleri. “Then he demanded that I publish them, even offering to pay for the expenses himself. Eventually, I self-published that collection, called Solitudni fil-Folla, out of respect for him, and it was very well-received.”
Two self-published collections later, Camilleri’s novellas caught the eye of local publishing house Horizons, with whom he has since published five books with more in the pipeline.
Camilleri’s work continues to invite its reader to pause, reflect, and perhaps even challenge our assumptions, the same way he has since childhood. The author’s integrity and introspection is refreshing at a time where both qualities are becoming increasingly elusive.
