Probably my favourite book by Alan Bennett. The
market is saturated with 90-page novellas that are meant to make readers laugh.
This one didn’t make me laugh, but it did make me smile – and that’s probably a
much greater accomplishment.
An even greater accomplishment is that, despite
the fact that the monarch portrayed has probably got very little to do with the
actual Elizabeth II, Bennett actually made me like the Queen a lot more
(something that, at the London Olympics, also James Bond managed to do). I
mean, who wouldn’t like to have a Head of State who sneaks out to read Dickens
and Hardy (and Proust too, but why? Why? Why should anyone do that to
him/herself?!?)
I wish there was someone in Italy capable of
producing something this enjoyable. I’m not saying a masterpiece (this book is
lovely, but it isn’t one), but something so delicate. Unfortunately, most Italian
writers have spent their last 20 years copying themselves (at best) or
failing to reinvent the wheel (at worst).
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