In Curzio Malaparte’s perverse and irksome novel “The Skin,” an American Army officer stationed in a devastated southern Italy in 1943 exclaims, “Ah Europe! What an extraordinary place it is. I need Europe, to make me conscious of being an American.” The officer—“an American in the noblest sense of the word,” a man with a “delicacy of feeling” prone to blushing at the sight of the degradation all around him—seems to be talking about European culture, of which he is in awe.