On the matter of great books you have not read or even heard about, and one such book in particular, “The Leopard” by Prince Giuseppe Di Lampedusa.

by  Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. I am, have been, and always will be a book man; a man, that is, whose life has been enriched in every way by books. These books have been my joy, my obsession, always the source of bliss. And no wonder.  For in my own special corner with book in hand and my imagination, I have learned something of the utmost significance. Books can take you anywhere. With them you can be anyone… achieve anything…  experience everything. … This is what a book can do and what books for the last 65 years have done for me.
Books… the necessary and irreplaceable tools for education… boon companions and dearest friends for life, the solace of our older age, and where we look to assuage our grief when a loved one passes. Books offer us everything… for books are about everything… about everyone… about everywhere.
The only drawback to books… is that there are so many, so brilliant, so moving, so epochal, so packed with fact and incident that we time-challenged humans don’t have even a tiny fraction of the hours we need to know them, read them, think on them, and use them to improve the person we are and wish always to ameliorate. Books are always present, reminding us with their full assistance, how much better we can be… if only we open the cover and allow the words and pages that follow to take us to the superior place that is theirs to give to each of us.
Had we but world enough and time (Andrew Marvell, 1681)…
… but you see, that is the eternal challenge, for we do not… and this, then, becomes the particular puzzle of all our lives. How to know of, find, and find the time to read what must be read… the greatest books by our greatest masters; for as one grows older and older still, one discovers that time is too short to read anything else. That is why when people do me the honor to ask what books have influenced me, I am ever ready with the contents of my library to advise them. And so I take this opportunity to tell you about “The Leopard”, a masterpiece that was in 1957 so despised by Italian publishers that some said it would never be printed, was not worth printing… thereby breaking the heart of its author, Prince Di Lampedusa whose manners were so refined that he did not excoriate and rebuke the purblind publishers who thereby missed a work of high genius. It is this great book by an undoubted master that I tell you about this day.
But before I tell this tale, I wish to commend to you the incidental music to accompany this piece. It is the “valzerone e quadriglia” by that composer of cinematic magic, Nino Rota (1911-1979). Go now to any search engine and play it at once, for if “The Leopard” could possibly be improved upon, it would be by Rota and his mesmeric dance rhythms.  A novel about the Italy you know nothing about.
You cannot understand this book unless you know that its author was a bona fide principe, prince of ancient lineage and generations of hubris, condescension and perfect manners. He would not have liked you… why should he?… but you’d never know how exquisite his insults until long after he’d made his graceful exit from your unwanted company, the mark of a true aristocrat, a nonpareil who kills but never maims — unless he intends to.
But, and this too is crucial to understanding this book, this principe was not a prince of Italy, but a prince from Palermo, in Sicily, an island which had been since ships could sail the highly desirable target of one monarch after another, Dei gratia all.
As a result, there was a plenitude of titles on Sicily; grandiose, exalted, the residue of one temporary regime after another. Every noble knew how every title in the kingdom had been procured, by blood, valor… bedroom services or outright purchase. Thus the same title could mean wildly different things, of one order going up, while another was descending. Every nobleman and most especially his milady knew every nuance and secret. And so reputations wilted and died, scandals commenced and scandals reported behind delicate fans which at once enabled them to show their artistry and delicate wrists to best advantage while obscuring expressions which might well reveal too much.
This was a world the prince of Lampedusa knew well, every flutter of a fan, every patent of nobility finagled, every tittle of gossip, enjoyed, examined, twisted to best advantage. This is the arcane world, now as distant as the moon, that his excellency brought to life in “The Leopard”.
“Nothing much happens. They just talk.”
In doing my research for this article, I came across the line above, sentiments posted online by a reader puzzled by this book. This is understandable, for unlike our action packed books and films, “The Leopard” moves at a very different pace… the pace of real life in the 1860s when the old verities of Sicilian life were giving way before the insistent realities of Italian unification.
You see, the unified Italy you know and which you may assume has existed for centuries is in fact a new reality. Since the fall of the Roman Empire, Italy had been broken up into smaller states. And these states spent their time intriguing against each other, gaining an acre here, losing a city there. It gave generations of princes and their privy counselors something to do during the delicious days of la dolce far niente. It was this ancient system that the princes reigning in Turin, the House of Savoy, were determined  to end… reigning instead over one nation, their patrimony.
It is towards the end of this opera-bouffe revolution that Lampedusa begins his tale, a tale based on the life of his paternal great-grandfather, a grandee of Sicily who saw everything changing, changing, changing to the detriment of the beautiful life he loved but could no longer afford.
And so “The Leopard”, Prince Fabrizio Salina, finds himself doing something he abhors but knows is absolutely necessary… allowing his beloved nephew, Prince Tancredi Falcorieri, to marry beneath himself… to the most attractive young lady of the district, Angelica Sedara, who is socially ambitious, endlessly calculating… and rich.
Thus while they live, think, intrigue, eat, dance and make love, the House of Savoy changes everything for everyone… Thus is the reader rebuked who thinks that nothing is happening, for in fact an entire world and everyone, everything in it changes forever right before your eyes…
… a riveting story told in language so beautiful, so poignant, so epigrammatic and apt one is forced to reread line after line so as not to miss a single limpid word. It is for this that “The Leopard” is a work of genius and the prince of Lampedusa occupies at last his just place in the literary pantheon.
April, 1993.
I read “The Leopard” in the spring of 1993; I know because I entered the date on the title page. I’ve been reading it again lately, and will come back again, perhaps only to read a page, or even a single paragraph, before my life is over. Classics are like that… drawing us back, insinuating themselves into our lives in ways lesser creations cannot hope to duplicate.
Now, therefore, go to any search engine, find Nino Rota’s valzerone written for Visconti’s 1963 grand film recreation of the leopard’s doomed world, open the book, turn the music on and commence reading from the first line,
“Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen. The daily recital of the Rosary was over…” but your pleasure has just begun.

‘Without the help and support of the woman I love.” Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson, love and scandal.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. In 1936 the world was transfixed by a story so big, so engrossing, so incredible that only the Second Coming could have topped it. It was the story of Edward VIII, King of England, Emperor of India… and a twice- married American lady from Baltimore, Maryland — Mrs. Simpson. It was billed as history’s greatest love affair… but, as this article unfolds… you may very well draw a very different conclusion.
But let’s start by playing the tune I’ve selected to accompany this article…. “Exactly Like You”. Go to any search engine to find this number. It was written in 1930 by Jimmy McHugh and Dorothy Fields. I swear by the rendition by Louis Armstrong. You won’t be able to get it out of your head; kind of like the king’s catastrophic obsession with his Wallis… for of all the women in the world who wanted him, he had to have her, the very worst choice imaginable.. to the consternation and disgust of the empire on which the sun never set.
The most important boy in the world.
When your great grandmother is Queen Victoria, ruler of half the world; when your grandfather is King Edward VII, called the Uncle of Europe, because his relations ruled over virtually everything; when your father is King George V and your mother is Queen Mary… your birth, life, and every single breath you take is an event… important, eagerly awaited, commented upon, chronicled. In short, it is life in the grandest fish bowl on Earth; for in return for unimaginable wealth, celestial status, and the adoration and veneration of untold millions… you give up any semblance of a personal life… any semblance of privacy. You belong not to yourself… but to your subjects, the people of England and of all the Dominions beyond the seas…
This was Edward Albert Christian George Andrew Patrick David, born in 1894, called David by his family and Your Royal Highness by everyone else. The world envied him… but his life was anything but enviable… his parents saw to that.
George (1865–1936) & Mary (1867-1953).
The argument for monarchy goes like this: in a turbulent, uncertain, unpredictable and therefore alarming world, a sovereign is eternal, stable, stalwart, an institution you can trust to be here tomorrow, because it was here yesterday and the day before that. A sovereign rises above the trivia of today, able to take the long view, high above the fray and the little concerns of little men. Having everything, wanting nothing, monarchs can be trusted with the concerns of the nation they exist to improve, to serve, to uplift and inspire.
This is all very well…. but where do you find such larger than life paragons? Certainly not in the lives of George and Mary, people frightened by their unceasing responsibilities and the constant burden of having to appear just so to a world which evaluated, and minutely too, every move they made, every action, every decision.
Most assuredly neither George nor Mary were such people… and therefore like so many people fearful of making a mistake (and being roundly criticized) they embraced rigid severity… and so sought to cover up their many inadequacies as people by a unceasingly stern and unapproachable demeanor. It looked good on ceremonial occasions… for then they were regal indeed… but life lived this way was tormenting to all concerned… especially for the two young princes Edward and Albert, future Edward VIII and George VI.
They were boys who needed love, tender care, affection… but were ignored by their colder than ice mother for whom a peck on the cheek was excessive… and constantly admonished by their father, a man who became king only because his elder brother died young thereby bequeathing the empire and his expected wife, Mary of Teck, to his younger brother Georgie, a man who rose far above his abilities, a man who knew nothing about human relations and thought that communication was nothing more than the business of barking orders and having them instantly complied with.
In such a world how could the little princes of Windsor emerge as anything other than flawed, wanting… and rebellious.
Prince of change.
All children go through a rebellious stage where “no!” is their favorite word. Do you want this? No! Do you want that? No! How about something else? No, again! But in the fullness of time even the most argumentative three year old comes out of this phase and starts growing up. But David of Windsor never did. Whatever was tried, true, traditional, standard… he wanted nothing to do with, wanted to change it, not slowly and unobtrusively but now in the most jarring and thoughtless of ways. He wanted what he wanted, when he wanted it… and as Prince of Wales from 1910… he was in a position to get it, especially as he came to understand how much the world loved and admired him.
Wobbly monarchy, high-flying adored prince.
World War I saw the demise of the great imperial dynasties of Europe, the Habsburgs of Austria, the Hohenzollerns of Germany, the Romanovs of Russia… all swept away. The only major dynasty left was in England, and it was headed by the uninspiring, unimaginative, fretful George V who was majesty in nothing but name. The dynasty needed youth… glamor… connection to the restive peoples of the empire. And for this role there was only one man available… David, now Prince of Wales… a man who shed glamor and allure on the Roaring Twenties. His world tours (from 1919) made him a world celebrity… and lonely.
He tried women, he tried booze, he tried drugs… but because he could have everything, nothing made him happy. Nothing that is except the thrills and freedoms of the Great Republic, particularly its greatest city, New York. Only there were there sufficient dissipations and indiscretions. Besides, just stepping foot in America enraged both his parents, and that made these trips delicious.
Then he met Wallis Warfield Simpson, a woman with a sordid past and two living husbands… a past that could outrage every convention and agitate the world he was destined to rule… a world that bored and annoyed him. Wallis offered him what he truly craved: submission for that was her secret… she gave the man everyone kow-towed to the gift of abasement…. the power to get the man to whom all knelt to kneel to her….
She, of course, despised him, but using him as he wanted her to use him would make her a world figure, maybe even Queen-Empress. She was ill-advised on this point, and so overplayed her cards. Instead of a boyish sovereign over whom she could rule, she got after his abdication in 1936 a semblance of a man whom she systematically and publicly humiliated for the rest of his life. He cried… he sobbed… he adored. It was the perfect relationship, exactly what he wanted. And, after all, isn’t that what love is for?
For as Louis Armstrong sings,
“I know why I’ve waited Know why I’ve been blue I’ve been waiting each day For someone exactly like you… You make me feel so grand I wanna give this world to you…”
… and he almost did.
Honi soit qui mal y pense.