The Leopard by Giuseppe di Lampedusa

Back in January of 2010--time out while I wonder how FIVE YEARS have passed since then--I posted about this unsuspecting little read, Giuseppe di Lampedusa's The Leopard. I say unsuspecting because, although I seemed to find it slow moving and a little hard to read, this book sticks with me as one of the most beautifully written books I've ever read (and I actually don't remember the plot any more). It's one of those books that I suggest when people are looking for something new/different to read. Again, why I do that, since below I mention it being a book only lit majors could love, I have no idea. But it left a strong impression that's lasted half a decade.

"Set in the 1860s, The Leopard tells the spellbinding story of a decadent, dying Sicilian aristocracy..." That's how the back cover of the begins the summary. But I have to say, I'm not sure I think 'tells' is the appropriate verb, for multiple reasons. For one, the story isn't complete. The time from May 1860 through May 1910 is covered. That's a lot of time, for not a lot of pages, and as a result many things are not told. Secondly, the story is very slow moving. I think only English majors or major literature fans could make it through this novel. The actual plot movement felt minimal. Pages of description or tangents accompanied one major movement or revelation. [Some of this could be due to the translation of the novel from Italian to English (I think).]

But the prose is amazing--the word choice and descriptions are indulgent. For anyone who appreciates the setting, the scenery, the little bits and pieces of literature that aren't simply character development or plot motivation--this book is beguiling. I love the attention to detail, the almost dramatic but still carefree way things are described, the words and the imagery. It's a sensual read for word lovers.

"The half hour between Rosary and dinner was one of the least irritating moments of his day, and for hours beforehand he would savior its rather uncertain calm." 9

"The two telescopes and three lenses were lying there quietly, dazed by the sun, with black pads over the eyepieces, like well-trained animals who knew their meal was given them only at night." 37

"The comets would be appearing as usual, punctual to the minute, in sight of whoever was observing them." 40

"He drained his wine in a single gulp. The initials F.D. which before had stood out clearly on the golden color of the full glass were no longer visible." 43

"Tancredi, in an attempt to link gallantry and greed, tried to imagine himself tasting, in the aromatic forkfuls, the kisses of his neighbor Angelica, but he realized at once that the experiment was disgusting and suspended it, with a mental reservation about reviving this fantasy with the pudding." 80

"...and he rejoiced at this decision of Tancredi's which would assure him an ephemeral carnal satisfaction and a perennial financial peace." 98

"The thought occurred to Don Fabrizio that it was ignorance of this supreme consolation that made the young feel sorrows much more sharply than the old; the latter are nearer the safety exit." 229

Also, the author addresses and writes dying in a way that is meaningful, simple, and wonderful to read. I don't want to say too much in case you read it, but when I go, I hope it's like this.

10 Overlooked Novels

The Guardian posted an article about Overlooked Novels. I've never even heard of nine of them. But one, #9, is actually something I spent a lot of time on in college. 

I took a course on utopia from a literature professor with a large background in, and professional and focus on, Chinese culture. So, while studying portrayals of utopia (and dystopia, which was just as fun) we naturally combined both his interests through the 18th century epically long Chinese tale, The Dream of the Red Chamber also called The Story of the Stone.

The book is generally in five parts when translated to English, and while we were acquainted with the beginning of the story, we focused on the second book in the series, "The Crab-Flower Club."

This story inspired our final group project in the class, creating our own crab-flower club, and writing poetry, decorating pages with pastel pencilings of flowers, drinking tea, and other experiential recreations of the book and utopia, creating both our own characters and channeling those in the book. I honestly LOVED this project and the story itself, so I ended up a little hooked on the books and asked my parents for the whole series that year for Christmas or my birthday or something. 

(I didn't get them. Hello, buy a freshman a five-book series as she's embarking on a four-year English education that will cost hundreds in novels that she'll have to read each semester? Terrible trap that my parents avoided.)

But that's neither here nor there, because there's this list of ten obscure books, see, and I know and really like one of them. This is me, feeling like a smart, worldly nerd and loving it. 

The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas

Dumas' works have always been a little daunting to me. But, as I looked for a venerable classic available on audiobook download from my library, The Count of Monte Cristo seemed the perfect foil to fluffier books I'd just read for book clubs.

I followed the book with interest, but little thought or judgment, until Dantes' vengeful plans began to be revealed to the reader. While I really enjoyed seeing how Dantes would avenge his wrongs (the elaborate impersonations, the network of friends and compatriots carefully curated solely to exact revenge), I was pretty quickly struck by his playing God. Why does he get to decide their fates? Didn't his own experience with others unfairly commanding his future teach him anything?

Thankfully, for both myself and Dumas' moral and God-fearing readers at the time, Dantes did realize his fault, even sparing the life of one enemy. And it wasn't a sudden feeling of remorse or change of heart--which I think would have felt too cheap--but the incidental death of a child that woke him from the automatic pilot of complete devastation to all.

The relationship between Dantes and Haydee is the one part of the novel I didn't enjoy. His love of the young girl surprised me, because I took him as a only-love-Mercedes kind of guy. The romantic in me wanted him to be devoted to her, although I understood his coolness and yet absolute compassion for her, which was necessary for the advancement of his character from a wronged, heartsick man to a worldly, manipulative Count. All that aside, I still don't get where Haydee fits. Dantes' revelation of being in love with her seemed as unexpected to him as to me, which didn't fit the way the novel tended to allude to things as they developed. And then there's the way they come to their realize they're in love with each other: some sort of middle school s/he thinks s/he doesn't like me, can you believe it, can it be true? And this conversation is even facilitated through another person, so it might as well have been middle school. Why did his second love have to be assisted? Why weren't they mature about their relationship? Why wasn't the novel more gratuitous with their growing relationship? It's such a small part of the book that I can hardly get hung up on it--and I certainly don't strongly judge the book for this reason--but I did find it worth noting.

A final note, I highly approve of the sentiment of the ending, which is about the bigger picture over all, and certainly the lesson that Dantes learned as a prisoner, as a vengeful man, and as a lover: '[A]ll human wisdom is contained in these two words: wait and hope.'

Millennium Trilogy - Stieg Larsson

Can I just start by saying, This series has the best damn audiobooks I've ever listened to, and I don't even care that the bolded sentence within this sentence ends in a preposition. It's that damn fantastic. Thank you, thank you Stieg Larsson and Simon Vance. I could not stop listening!

A couple people who have read the books told me they thought this would be hard as an audiobook. I presume listening to someone speak about the gruesome rapes and murders would be worse than reading them--you can always skip over uncomfortable parts when you can see the words to know when you're in the clear. However, it didn't particularly bother me. Was it easy? Of course not.

But one benefit outweighed that negative: Listening to the books produced the distinct advantage that I didn't have to guess, or just ignore, the names of persons, places, and things that I couldn't pronounce. It was fabulous!

Something else about the audiobooks that I enjoyed? The reader doing different voices for the characters. That can be kitschy and annoying rather than helpful. But these books were so dialogue-heavy that simply reading the text without tonal clues as to who was speaking, would have produced some confusion for the listener. Simon Vance is a master, and I could not only recognize the different voices for the main characters, I honestly was not distracted by the variety. It felt almost like listening to a TV show, but was less jarring than the books that include different readers for the different characters.

Now, a quick word on the books themselves: Compelling. Literally, if I only had one word, that would be it. This is a damn compelling story. 

These were a whirlwind of twists and turns. Some things I never saw coming. Others I thought would happen but did not. Uh, Lisbeth's twin, anyone? Where is she! The characters were familiar by the end of the third book, but not so familiar that the plots were entirely predictable. I love the extremely despicable bad guys and the flawed but loyal good guys. They were easy to hate, easy to like, and most importantly: easy to judge. I felt the books required a lot of passing judgment or assessing others' judgments was an integral part of the book for the reader. No one was perfect--even Blomkvist who oddly never abandoned Lisbeth had his downfalls with the womanizing. Where did Harriet Vanger go, by the way? She just disappeared. Is that one of the other women he referenced toward the end of the third book? And did he stay in love (so very out of character) with that muscular woman? Also in the world of loose ends: whatever happened with Hacker Republic? Did they just leave Sweden one day? These sorts of soft endings and ghost-like characters may have been answered in later books (almost undoubtedly would have, actually).

One thing I did not do while listening, surprisingly, was question the legitimacy or the reality of anything happening in the books. Realistic? Hardly. But it didn't bother me, and I assume it's because how, for lack of a better word, real the characters were in contrast to their amazing skills and situations.

I do so wish this series had made it to the 10 planned books. We're definitely suffering a loss with Larsson's death.

This is a must-experience audio series. Get to it! And if you've already read the books but would consider rereading them, pick audiobook instead for a likely different but highly enjoyable experience.