Do writers see the world through the lens of a potential story? Do they see other people through the lens of a potential character, perhaps guessing at the inner lives of their fellow passengers while riding a train? Would a writer in a first class train carriage to Milan, for example, observe a young couple sitting across the way and speculate about the the nature of their relationship, going so far as to imagine how they might have met and arguments they might have had? If that writer is anything like the narrator of William Trevor’s novel ‘My house in Umbria’, this is just what they’d do.
The narrator of ‘My house in Umbria’, a former madam, now writer and hostess of a not-quite-b&b, not-quite-pensione in the countryside near Siena, calls herself Mrs. Delahunty but, as she tells us early on, that’s just one of many names she’s gone by. She’s honest, therefore, about her dishonesty. Early on, Mrs. Delahunty, or Emily (apparently her real name), is the victim of a likely terrorist bombing in a first class train carriage. As she lies in the hospital, she recalls the details of the bombing along with bits and pieces of other significant moments in her life. From this jumbled mess we quickly identify that despite the now-peaceful, even privileged life Emily leads, she has emerged from the darkness of exploitation and abuse. And if her preoccupation with the past is anything to go by, she hasn’t truly escaped.
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Florence vs. Firenze, the enduring value of art vs. the rather temporal value of a human life, one theory of restoration vs. another: these themes form a binding thread throughout Robert Clark’s exploration of a destructive flood and the subsequent recovery effort in Florence. ‘Dark Water’ features residents and lovers of Florence from the Middle Ages onwards, a diverse cast of characters that includes artists and political greats like Giorgio Vasari, Niccolo Machiavelli and Leonardo Da Vinci, John Ruskin, considered by many as the father of art history, and writers E.M. Forster and Henry James; you’ll find less admirable types, such as that art lover and cruel dictator Adolf Hitler. Hitler once enjoyed a private tour of the Uffizi, and his admiration of the Ponte Vecchio appeared to be the only thing that spared it from destruction during the waning days of World War II.
Robert Clark begins by noting the differences between one city, Firenze, and another, Florence. They’re geographically the same, of course, but the Italian Firenze belongs to those residents who might trace their family history to their city back not only decades, but centuries. Florence, on the other hand, is a city of tourists, students, writers, and other transient types drawn by art and history and food. A student or tourist or writer might, on occasion, wander into Firenze for a bit, but by and large the two rarely appear to intersect. Clark lived in Florence while researching and writing a novel, and returned, later, to cover the events surrounding the 40th anniversary of the 1966 flood which, save for the dedication of several brave souls, might have destroyed some of the glorious art visitors enjoy today.
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(Cover design by Andrew Davidson for Harper Perennial.)
I don’t know if it’s trend in the arts, or if it’s sheer coincidence, but there seems to be a strong interest in World War I right now. This past weekend we saw the film ‘War Horse’ (based on a book that was later made into a play), which at first glance appears to be a boy-and-his-horse tale, but in actuality demonstrates how quickly and completely warfare was changed by advancements in technology; or, in simpler terms, by more efficient killing machines. On Sunday evening I settled in to watch the US premiere of the second season of Downton Abbey, which kicked off in the midst of World War I, and is (thankfully) more interested in being a highly entertaining, beautifully decorated soap opera than in capturing the trauma of war.
On the literary front I’ve been plowing through the Maisie Dobbs novels, each of which tell not only a good mystery, but also explore the social consequences World War I wrought in the decade that followed. The author of this series, Jacqueline Winspear, embeds lots of period detail, making each book a chance to travel to another, convincingly rendered, period of time. Winspear’s heroine often draws upon her wartime experiences as a nurse, but is equally haunted by all that she saw and endured attending to wounded soldiers in France. In each case, Maisie Dobbs uses her keen perception, her cultivated empathy (she mimics a person’s posture in order to get a better sense of what they are feeling), organization (creating a case map complete with a case of characters and drawing possible links) and a calm, cool demeanor achieved by meditation. There are no clear cut hero’s or villains, as Winspear takes pains to show how complex people—and their motivations—really are.
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When I mentioned to a friend that Oscar Wilde’s grave at Pere LaChaise cemetery is covered with lipstick marks, she wrinkled her nose and said, “Ewwww….” Yeah, it is kind of icky. So why the kisses? Wilde is loved and all, but so are a lot of other writers and artists, and except for Jim Morrison, their graves aren’t quite as…decorated. According to this news article, in 1999 “someone had the idea of planting a large, lipsticked kiss on the tomb, sparking a craze for Wilde’s many admirers visiting Paris.” The same article features an image of the glass shield recently unveiled to protect the newly cleaned tombstone from further displays of affection. I have to wonder if people won’t just start kissing the glass, instead?
English author E.M. Forster wrote about Florence and Tuscany in ‘A room with a view’ and ‘Where angels fear to tread’, demonstrating in both novels how buttoned up English tourists were irrecoverably changed by Italy and the Italians, even as they kept themselves at a safe remove. his characters were, by today’s standards, ‘travelers’, embarking on slow travel around Europe that lasted months at a time. This wasn’t how he saw them, or how they saw themselves, however: they were strictly, unabashedly, tourists. Lucy, the heroine of ‘A room with a view’, witnesses a violent act at the piazza della Signoria and in the moments that follow shares a transforming moment with George, a fellow countryman and tourist. She’s spent her life keeping passion and spontaneity at a distance, and but for this brief episode she might have continued to live that way. She can’t put back to sleep the feelings Italy arouses, however, and when they—and George—pursue her in England, she eventually submits.
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