Falling Palace: A Romance of Naples
Dan Hofstadter
Language: English
Pages: 272
ISBN: 0375714286
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A portrait of the sun-drenched volcanic city from an American who has lost his heart to the place and to a beguiling Neapolitan woman.
In Falling Palace Dan Hofstadter brilliantly reveals Naples, from the dilapidated architectural beauty to the irrepressible theater of everyday life. We witness the centuries-old festivals that regularly crowd the city’s jumbled streets, and eavesdrop on conversations that continue deep into the night. We browse the countless curio shops where treasures mingle with kitsch, and meet the locals he befriends. In and out of these encounters slips Benedetta, the object of the author’s affections, at once inviting and unfathomable. Weaving the tale of an elusive love together with a vivid portrayal of a legendary metropolis, this is a startling evocation of a magical place.
A Civil War: A History of the Italian Resistance
Venetian Life (Barnes & Noble Digital Library)
Amore and Amaretti: A Tale of Love and Food in Italy
pharmaceutical scams. Say I was thinking about Benedetta and suddenly she called me—that sort of thing had a numerical match-up, too. (To be precise, it was 76.) From my friends I had learned to consider dreams as telegrams from the buon anime, the “good souls,” as the shades of the dead were known in these parts. The buon anime foresaw the future, consequently also the results of the next lottery drawing, which they sometimes conveyed to the living in dreams. The dead could play some naughty
obviously been huffing and puffing up and down the neighborhood, running errands, I supposed, for his daughters. He told me where to find Melisurgo's well. “It isn't in what we now call Pizzofalcone, but down below, in Santa Lucia,” he said with his percussive diction, rapping out his consonants. “Do you know those big blind arches at the foot of the cliff? Those arches were open once—not walled up as they are today—and beneath them was a shaft, about one yard wide and fifty yards deep. It must
at the Villa Comunale—well, really she had always walked there alone, probably clutching her bag, while I waited nearby, at a nice café in the Riviera di Chiaia, sipping espresso and grappa, perusing my Corriere. Nor, knowing Benedetta's power to repress all episodes of embarrassment, could I fathom her jauntily revisiting the diary fiasco. Above all, the writing was devoid of her singular charm and playfulness. She had not used her broad-nibbed pen, and even her usual hand, with its whimsical
old Jesuit pharmacy here. For storing medicinal herbs.” Rotating it in his hands, he tilted his head back and scrutinized it through his half-moon glasses. “Imagine getting medicine from a priest,” he commented. “About as reliable as absolution from a doctor. Charming decoration—from a composition by Titian. You won't find anything this good from much after 1820—Naples has been artistically inert since then. But let's be charitable to the old whore. She has many beautiful things, most of them
Leopardi in your pocket, humming Rossini, exclaiming over the altarpieces in every church you enter? Because if so—” “Listen, Renzo,” I said, bristling at his presumptuous pigeonholing, “you said you had a proposition of some sort. I can't wait to hear what it is.” No doubt it was an offer I'd decline, but at least his stating it would cut short this maddening chatter. Renzo closed his eyes for a moment of long, freighted silence. “I'm coming to that,” he replied at length, in the voice of one
