As you may know by know, Elena Ferrante is something of a recluse. Or perhaps that's the wrong term. She zealously guards her privacy. She grants few interviews, never appears on camera. There is on photograph of her that makes the rounds, a grainy black-and-white of a mid-fifty-something woman smoking. It's widely considered a fake.
Frankly, she makes Salinger and Pynchon look like social gadflies.
She will, occasionally, grant written interviews. Click here for one she did with Publisher's Weekly.
There are a few more you can find. But trust very few unless they're from a reputable source. Many in Italy think the writer could even be a man. Or that "Elena Ferrante" is the pseudonym for a more famous Italian writer who has gotten pigeonholed into one genre or another.
We've encountered her before in this group. Here's a blog post from the last time we read her, when we did DAYS OF ABANDONMENT.
She's had something of a big run recently with critical appraisals in The New Yorker (here), The Times Literary Supplement (here), and the L. A. Review of Books (here). Warning: don't read these unless you're done. They contain spoilers.
In fact, consider skipping them entirely. Of any writer I know, Ferrante almost dares critics to make assessments. Her writing flings theories back into their faces. Maybe into ours, too.