In Love with France, At Home In Italy

Dear Donna Leon, I can't believe it took me this long to find you. Nearly 68 years, to be somewhat precise. And now, having just finished the last of your available Brunetti novels, I have very mixed emotions. I never expected to be spending the first few months of leave from my academic appointment--my first significant period away from teaching--falling for Brunetti. I haven't read much in this genre since I was a teenager on the prowl for steamy scenes in Mickey Spillane. I was supposed to be spending this time off my Ivy League treadmill working on my own writing, instead of my usual work of helping others to write. But I could not stop myself.  You know how in Alice in Wonderland, the King said gravely that one is supposed to begin at the beginning "and go on till you come to the end: then stop"? Well, I started at the beginning of your oeuvre, and here I am. Here's how it happened. My 85-year-old writing partner who knew of my fascination with Montalbano o...

I am not being fickle when I say I am in love with both these gentlemen. IT MAKES ME FEEL BETTER JUST TO KNOW THAT THERE ARE PEOPLE LIKE THEM IN THIS WORLD. Of course they're not really in this world at all, but since I've lived in Italy, they have become part of the interior world of my head. It's true that as an adolescent I went through a crime novel phase, mostly delving for the sex scenes ("And when she took off her clothes, I realized she was a REAL blonde..."). Yes, at age 14, I thought Mike Hammer in "I, the Jury," was a very sexy dude. But once I was a so-called adult, I never went near mystery lit. Until now, that is. I am currently pondering the mystery of how I fell under the spell of Donna Leon's Brunetti, whose "beat" is Venice. At first I resisted, since my heart already belonged to Commissario Montalbano, from exotic-to-me Sicily. But this summer I have worked my way through 22 Brunetti novels, and am already in mourning...