Blinding heights

Palazzo Barbaro, Venice. Photo by Jandudas

When I was a kid, I was always fascinated by a book's cover depicting a statue of a girl, head cocked to the side, palms turned upwards holding a bowl each. It would give off a fey air with a tinge of dark atmosphere as it seems that it stands upon a cemetery. A few years later, as I have had enough consciousness to delve into books, I read John Berendt's Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil wholly assuming that it was a fictional novel until I turned to the last page. An edifying moment occured after relishing the novel's festal yet daunting air as I drank the cover that it was a non-fiction work.

Berendt regales again with his second non-fiction work with The City of Falling Angels, a turn towards the city of Venice, far from the cemeteries and idiosyncrasies of Savannah. Introducing elites and dilettantes throughout the floating city, Berendt leaves one grasping towards the subtle nuances of each person, families, palaces, histories and relationships towards the neighbours and the beloved city. Centered around the hubbub as the Fenice burned down, the consequential vicissitudes throughout the murder of a precious landmark marks the connection of Berendt's people. On a side, it leans towards the situation of the conflagration--was it an accident or a crime of negligence? Malfeasances and eccentricities sprawl out through Berendt's signature seamless inquiries as it stretches towards the important people of Venice. From the formation of organizations, Venetians who are not and the seemingly innocuous happenstance of crimes and Venice's version of bilious elegance and unending secrets.

The book gives a vicarious air not as much as a coup de cœur with Savannah but a dilatory and forbearing ken of what Venice is about with its citizens and denizens alike. One would adore the city and the people long before the conscience acknowledges it. As famous and infamous people who were seduced by the city's unique allure for fame, power and quietus, the title of the book seems ironic enough.