Thanks for the interesting notes once again. I’m intrigued by Bendico as the prince’s humanity. This week I was also struck by the different way the prince interacts with Paolo and Tancredi. I felt a bit sorry for Paolo. I wonder if they will be “2 sides of a coin” going forwards.
There's a theory that Paolo is based on the author's father, and the contempt the Prince has for him mirrors the coldness between Tomasi and his dad. But if you think about it, does he truly love Tancredi in the first place? He's such a selfish person.
Nana, my Italian great-grandmother, embarrassed the whole family by not denouncing Mussolini. She explain it this way, “Dictators come and go, but there will always be Italians.”
I always found there's a cognitive dissonance between the people who actually lived during Mussolini's time and those that came after. In a sense, we've been raised hearing propaganda of the opposite kind. My grandma lived in a village occupied by Nazis and witnessed some truly horrific stuff, still she said it wasn't so bad, that they kept them fed during the winter.
What an interesting portrait of the Prince. He seems...disengaged - just trying to ride the waves of circumstance to the shore without much desire to take part. I was struck by the lack of people around him to advise or strategise. He is alone. He sees who's on the up but is apathetic. Once he has understood the political scene serenity returns. When his vision zooms out (looking through his telescope or gazing out over the sun-dazed countryside) it calms him. I understand - it's calming to view humans as tiny ants, their antics unimportant; he can escape into the wider view.
He's definitely depressed, and it's true that there's no one around him who can understand why life disgusts him. That's why he's so attached to Tancredi I think, because he's cynical like him but also very proactive, he can live vicariously through him. But other than that, he's completely lonely. He's a complex character, very privileged, smarter than most, a bit of a selfish bully.
The essay is magnificent, and I'm particularly grateful for the introduction to Tarantism. Those rhythms were truly hypnotic.
The novel's first part is brilliantly constructed—a whirlwind of simultaneous events unfolding against a backdrop of seemingly slow-moving time. It's yet another oxymoron woven into the chapter's rhythm.
So many moments stood out to me. The wall adorned with paintings serves as a poignant reminder of Salina's former wealth, now preserved only in pigment and canvas. It's as if nothing remains but color and an intoxicating taste. Yet I sensed even the color fading, as if Fabrizio's world were gradually shifting to black and white or sepia tones. Astronomy, his escape, is fittingly monochromatic—a dark sky punctuated by bright points. The passages about astronomy lend the book a mystical quality, a touch of the magical that's hard to define.
The dinner scene featuring the rum jelly was particularly memorable. The guests devoured it with relish, destroying it even as they savored it—once again leaving behind only that intoxicating taste and fleeting color.
Thank you for this beautiful comment Dana, it really means a lot that you're appreciating the novel. The book always makes me think about scent and taste (intoxicating, like you said), and I never really considered the fading colors. It makes sense because if you consider it from the point of view of the author, he's looking back at his ancestors through old, sepia photographs. These people, so alive in the book, are all dead in the present day, just like Bendicò's name indicates.
Thanks for the interesting notes once again. I’m intrigued by Bendico as the prince’s humanity. This week I was also struck by the different way the prince interacts with Paolo and Tancredi. I felt a bit sorry for Paolo. I wonder if they will be “2 sides of a coin” going forwards.
There's a theory that Paolo is based on the author's father, and the contempt the Prince has for him mirrors the coldness between Tomasi and his dad. But if you think about it, does he truly love Tancredi in the first place? He's such a selfish person.
“…lit silently by the sun through closed shutters…”. As elegant as writing gets.
Nana, my Italian great-grandmother, embarrassed the whole family by not denouncing Mussolini. She explain it this way, “Dictators come and go, but there will always be Italians.”
I always found there's a cognitive dissonance between the people who actually lived during Mussolini's time and those that came after. In a sense, we've been raised hearing propaganda of the opposite kind. My grandma lived in a village occupied by Nazis and witnessed some truly horrific stuff, still she said it wasn't so bad, that they kept them fed during the winter.
What an interesting portrait of the Prince. He seems...disengaged - just trying to ride the waves of circumstance to the shore without much desire to take part. I was struck by the lack of people around him to advise or strategise. He is alone. He sees who's on the up but is apathetic. Once he has understood the political scene serenity returns. When his vision zooms out (looking through his telescope or gazing out over the sun-dazed countryside) it calms him. I understand - it's calming to view humans as tiny ants, their antics unimportant; he can escape into the wider view.
He's definitely depressed, and it's true that there's no one around him who can understand why life disgusts him. That's why he's so attached to Tancredi I think, because he's cynical like him but also very proactive, he can live vicariously through him. But other than that, he's completely lonely. He's a complex character, very privileged, smarter than most, a bit of a selfish bully.
The essay is magnificent, and I'm particularly grateful for the introduction to Tarantism. Those rhythms were truly hypnotic.
The novel's first part is brilliantly constructed—a whirlwind of simultaneous events unfolding against a backdrop of seemingly slow-moving time. It's yet another oxymoron woven into the chapter's rhythm.
So many moments stood out to me. The wall adorned with paintings serves as a poignant reminder of Salina's former wealth, now preserved only in pigment and canvas. It's as if nothing remains but color and an intoxicating taste. Yet I sensed even the color fading, as if Fabrizio's world were gradually shifting to black and white or sepia tones. Astronomy, his escape, is fittingly monochromatic—a dark sky punctuated by bright points. The passages about astronomy lend the book a mystical quality, a touch of the magical that's hard to define.
The dinner scene featuring the rum jelly was particularly memorable. The guests devoured it with relish, destroying it even as they savored it—once again leaving behind only that intoxicating taste and fleeting color.
Thank you for this beautiful comment Dana, it really means a lot that you're appreciating the novel. The book always makes me think about scent and taste (intoxicating, like you said), and I never really considered the fading colors. It makes sense because if you consider it from the point of view of the author, he's looking back at his ancestors through old, sepia photographs. These people, so alive in the book, are all dead in the present day, just like Bendicò's name indicates.
I'm in the middle of nowhere for a week and have just realised I've forgotten my book 😭. I'll catch up when I'm back!
No worries Alison! Have a nice trip ❤️