Lampedusa novel
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Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa
Sicilian writer and prince (1896–1957)
Giuseppe Tomasi, 11th Prince of Lampedusa, 12th Duke of Palma, GE (23 December 1896 – 23 July 1957), known as Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa (Italian pronunciation:[dʒuˈzɛppetoˈmaːzidilampeˈduːza]), was a Sicilian writer, nobleman, and Prince of Lampedusa.[1] He is most famous for his only novel, Il Gattopardo (first published posthumously in 1958), which is set in his native Sicily during the Risorgimento. A taciturn, solitary, shy, and somewhat misanthropic aristocrat, he opened up only with a few close friends,[2] and spent a great deal of his time reading and meditating. He said of himself as a child, "I was a boy who liked solitude, who preferred the company of things to that of people",[3] and in 1954 wrote, "Of my sixteen hours of daily wakefulness, at least ten are spent in solitude."[4]
Biography
Tomasi was born in Palermo to Giulio Maria Tomasi, Prince of Lampedusa, Duke of Palma di Montechiaro, Baron of Torretta, and Grandee of Spain (1
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The Last Leopard: A Life of Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa
Author Gilmour shows how Lampedusa's family, like other noble families of Sicily, had been losing their lands and wealth to invasion, nature, changing times and as Lampudsa would have it, lack of initiative. After World War II, despite his reduced financial condition, he still had a title and a wealthy wife and continued the leisurely life of a noble; a life of travel, family visits, theater and café lunches.
Gilmour has read and interpreted for the reader notes Lampedusa left behind. They are from a survey course in European literature that he delivered to a small grou
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The saddest thing about the whole rather sad story of Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa is the publication of his one, world-famous novel, The Leopard, because it could be said that it was the only extraordinary thing to have happened in his life, although it happened, in fact, in death, sixteen months after he had departed this world. This is why he is one of the few writers who never felt he was a writer or lived as if he were one, even less so than others who also failed to publish anything during their lifetime, for the simple reason that he did not even attempt to do so until almost the end of his days. Not only did he make no attempt to get published, he did not even attempt to write anything.
He was more of a reader, insatiable and obsessive. The few people who knew him well were astonished at his encyclopaedic knowledge of literature and history, on both of which subjects he possessed a vast library. He had not only read all the important and essential writers, but also the second-rate and the mediocre, whom, especially as regards the novel, he considered to be as neces
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