There is an autograph in my copy of Malaparte’s masterpiece. Not his,
it’s actually John Mayall. Random, I know, but after a concert at Ronnie
Scott’s this was the only thing I had that could be autographed by the living
legend.
This is a book about, well, not exactly Fascism, but the effects of the
Second World War and the fight alongside the Americans against Fascism. The
funny thing, however, is that Malaparte himself – a wild anarchic character –
was a Fascist of the first hour before becoming disillusioned with the regime.
This is, essentially, a book about suffering. About a country that has
been “erased like a blackboard, rebuilt erased again” (thanks James Earl Jones) and is
written by someone who, quite clearly, still loves it and, most of all, still
loves its people. It’s written with a piercing style that shows the sorrow of a
man for the plague that has hit society around him and who has given up on the
souls of his people and can only hope that they will manage to save their skin
(“la pelle”).
No comments:
Post a Comment