The First Chapter of Giuseppe di Lampedusa's "The Leopard"

Aristocracy is not fertile ground. Thus, it is with a good deal of irony that a man as thoroughly aristocratic as Don Fabrizio de Salina would be such an energetic and optimistic lover. What is more, he is not sexual because he is sensual, like you might expect from one with such refined taste; he is sensual because he is sexual. He enjoys witty symbolism more than most, but sex is firstly and most importantly sex. There is no Freudian subconscious. The soil, even less fertile the class that owns it, would not allow for it. After all, this is Sicily.

“All politics are local” is inaccurate. All people who are interested in their locality are political. Partisanship begins between two people; this is where it’s strength lies. Once it extends beyond two, stretches out further to two others or three, then it receives a vocabulary, an identity. Soon enough, this vocabulary grows large enough, becomes introspective, and then it is that people forget the initial power of partisanship. The abstract identity assumes a power that it does not have, and word and expression that tied the group together unravels; it was the thread itself that was the strength, not the weaving.

The problem with aristocracy is not that it is limited and limiting. The difficulty is rather that aristocracy is ubiquitous, that we all, to some extent or another, harbor aristocratic tendencies. This is why “if we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change.” If the Liberals were thoroughly liberal, then there would be no need to overthrow the Aristocracy: it would crumble under the weight of it’s own false premises. But, the Liberals too are aristocratic. They believe, like everyone, in the existence of a community of the best. They see and admire virtue, adore excellence and so it is that the most alarming moment of the first chapter of “The Leopard” is the stunning beauty of the daughter of the head of the Liberal revolution. Virtue is like a woman. When Don Fabrizio seeks out a woman it is for her, not the appearance of her, not the idea of her. When we admire excellence and virtue it is not for the appearance of it, not for the idea of it, it is because we are drawn to it, we wish to be in the company of it; we believe that we too take part in it. This is the problem with aristocracy.

The sun burns the Sicilian soil. The vibrant tapestry of Sicilian Aristocracy flutters in the hot wind, sparkles in the sunlight. Shuffling feet and ruffled skirts announce the last serenade of a party that does not know that it is not dying. Death is much too democratic to be invited to this dinner. And far off but at the same time the soldiers anxiously waiting on the border are like chess pieces, not the other way around. Revolutions are won with battles, with ships and arms, planning and tactics, and they never create anything. They are like drunken oaths: bad if they are forgotten, worse if they are remembered.

We are caught on the wrong side of history. But then again, so are flowers after they are picked. We somehow manage to keep bringing them inside to decorate our houses.