‘Commissario Brunetti’ series author Donna Leon’s favorite recent books
Writing in the New York Times Book Review about Donna Leon’s long running Commissario Brunetti series, Marilyn Stasio nailed the secret of its appeal: “This endlessly enjoyable series, with its deep thoughts about justice and vengeance and charming classical allusions, can’t help making you smile.” In her new memoir, Wandering through Life, Leon writes about her life and the adventures that have informed her writing, and it’s as fascinating as any of her novels.
We asked her to name some of her favorite recent reads. Or, favorite recent re-reads, as it turned out. Here’s what she told us.
At a certain age, many readers become re-readers. I certainly have. No need to wade through bestselling confessional novels that deal with urban angst, childhood trauma, depression, or global warming (if only they would). Thus, I’ve decided to have a look at some of the books I liked, came to love, and now venerate. —Donna Leon
Oh, Becky, clever Becky, how I misjudged you. In my early twenties, when I first read Thackery’s Vanity Fair, filled with the righteousness of youth, I enjoyed Becky Sharp’s company, but I lacked the experience to respect and admire her. I do now, both. She was born of a French dancing girl and a musician, had little schooling, and all of that useless. Alone in the world, she decided to prosper, and as a woman of no stature, only charm and talent would achieve that. So, she lied and schemed, and deceived those willing to be seduced by her charm and wit, and so she rose. This time through, I saw that, wicked as she seemed, she was the cleverest and most clear-sighted person in the book, had no illusions, never gratuitously harmed anyone, nor felt any delight in harming other people. And, alone among them, she had a sense of humor. —Donna Leon
The heroine (although that’s the wrong word, I fear) of Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth, Lily Bart, seems at first glance to be better off than Becky. She’s a member, albeit a poor one, of the upper (in American, that means “richest”) class, related to many people who have earned or inherited enormous fortunes; she, alas, not among them. Like Becky, she has been taught little but understands full well that she will survive only if she marries a wealthy man. She tries, God knows she tries, but Lily cannot bring herself to sink to her society’s level. —Donna Leon
Count Miklós Bánffy (1873-1950), a Hungarian diplomat and foreign minister, is the author of a three-volume family saga, The Writing on the Wall: The Transylvania Trilogy, that runs to more than 2,000 pages. The books display the political and personal stupidities and excesses of the Hungarian nobility as they waltz their way into WWI and disaster. The reader follows the lives of two cousins, one who wants sincerely to help his country, and the other who wants to gamble, play the violin, and drink. Neither has much chance against historical forces. Bánffy’s writing is compellingly good: one all-but hears the hundreds of shots in the great hunting chapter, sees the carpet of slaughtered birds on the ground, or feels the wild rhythms of bohemian music as well as the music of formal balls that go on until dawn. This is addictive story-telling at its best. —Donna Leon
Author photo: Regine Mosimann
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