What do you think?
Rate this book
230 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1958
Plants were growing in thick disorder on the reddish clay; flowers sprouted in all directions, and the myrtle hedges seemed put there to prevent movement rather than guide it. At the end a statue of Flora speckled with yellow-black lichen exhibited her centuries-old charms with an air of resignation; on each side were benches holding quilted cushions, also of gray marble; and in a corner the gold of an acacia tree introduced a sudden note of gaiety. Every sod seemed to exude a yearning for beauty soon muted by languor.
The wealth of many centuries had been transmitted into ornament, luxury, pleasure; no more; the abolition of feudal rights had swept away duties as well as privileges; wealth, like an old wine, had let the dregs of greed, even of care and prudence, fall to the bottom of the barrel, leaving only verve and color. And thus eventually it cancelled itself out; this wealth which had achieved its object was composed now only of essential oils – and, like essential oils, it soon evaporated.
”The garden, hemmed and almost squashed between barriers, was exhaling scents that were cloying, fleshy and slightly putrid, like the aromatic liquids distilled from the relics of certain saints; the carnations superimposed their pungence on the formal fragrance of roses and the oily emanations of magnolias drooping in corners; and somewhere beneath it all was a faint smell of mint mingling with a nursery whiff of acacia and a jammy one of myrtle; from a grove beyond the wall came an erotic waft of early orange-blossom. It was a garden for the blind: a constant offence to the eyes, a pleasure strong if somewhat crude to the nose. The Paul Neyron roses, whose cuttings he had himself bought in Paris, and degenerated; first stimulated and then enfeebled by the strong if languid pull of Sicilian earth, burnt by apocalyptic Julys, they had changed into objects like flesh-coloured cabbages, obscene and distilling a dense almost indecent scent which no French horticulturist would have dared hope for. The Prince put one under his nose and seemed to be sniffing the thigh of a dancer from the Opera. Bendico (his dog), to whom it was also proffered, drew back in disgust and hurried off in search of healthier sensations amid dead lizards and manure.”
“El Gatopardo es una de esas obras literarias que aparecen de tiempo en tiempo y que, a la vez que nos deslumbran, nos confunden, porque nos enfrentan al misterio de la genialidad artística.”Un libro que, a pesar de la profundidad de su análisis, se lee con una facilidad sorprendente, dotado de una elegancia admirable, de una fina ironía, de un humor sutil.
“Si esta clase tuviera que desaparecer, aparecería enseguida otra equivalente, que si no se legitimara por la sangre, encontraría otra cosa en qué hacerlo, por ejemplo en que hace mucho que están en un mismo lugar o si no en que conocen mejor algún texto sagrado”.Pero también un libro sobre la decadencia de los individuos, sobre la triste pérdida del brío y la pasión de la juventud, sobre la melancolía y la desaparición del mundo y de las personas que amamos, sobre la incomodidad de un presente al que ya no pertenecemos.
childish and above all feminine in mind.There are many examples of this sort of authorial condemnation, including a passage that particularly exemplifies its origin being nothing but a sense of entitled bigotry, this being a priest dwelling on a niece whose marriage to a cousin who impregnated her is hoped to resolve a familial conflict.
And he thought of how the Lord, to bring about His justice, can even use bitches in heat.Those who decry the translation to be at fault for this, please. The meaning is quite clear, and frankly, I prefer not having my sensibilities to this sort of composition blinded by obscene amounts of purple prose. Besides, I'd like to see a translation handle this sentence any 'better', I really would.