Geniale. Divertente e struggente. Una riflessione sulla vita e sulla letteratura. O sul valore della letteratura nella vita.
Ho paura che la traduzione di questa novella abbia clamorosamente toppato. A cominciare dal titolo e la sua misera traduzione. In inglese il libro è "The uncommon reader", un gioco di parole con l'inglese "common" che indica una persona che legge per piacere e non per dovere. Sono sicura di volergli dare un'altra opportunità in lingua originale, perché voglio capire dove si sia perso tutto l'umorismo promesso.
Da qualche parte dev'essere e io lo troverò!
A presto, Alan
Recensione su http://bookshelf54.blogspot.it/2014/07/alan-bennett-la-sovrana-lettrice.html
At an official dinner, a circumstance that generally is not the right occasion for an easy exchange of ideas, the Queen of England, Elisabeth II, asks the President of France if he had ever read Jean Genet.
If a public figure, famous for her scarce loquacity during her career, ventures to a question like that, something must have happened. And of course something happened, even if it was something simple, but its consequences were incalculable.
By chance, the Queen discovered those strange objects that are called books.
She’d never taken much interest in reading. She read, of course, as one did, but liking books was something she left to other people. It was a hobby and it was in the nature of her job that she didn’t have hobbies.
She became an avid reader. Books had enriched her life in a way that one could never had expected.
She enjoyed reading like nothing else and devoured books at an astonishing rate.
What she was finding also was how one book led to another, doors kept opening wherever she turned and the days weren’t long enough for the reading she wanted to do.
Reading was untidy, discursive and perpetually inviting.
Reading was a muscle and one that she had seemingly developed. She could read novels with ease and great pleasure, as books are about other lives. Other worlds.
Previously she wouldn’t have cared what, for example, the maid thought or that she might have hurt her feelings, only now she did and she wondered why: because books did not care who was reading them or whether one read them or not. All readers were equal, herself included.
Literature, she thought, is a commonwealth; letters a republic.
Reading was anonymous; it was shared; it was common. And she who had led a life apart now found that she craved it. Here in these pages and between these covers she could go unrecognized.
A book is a device to ignite the imagination.
She felt about reading what some writers felt about writing, that it was impossible not to do it and that at this late stage of her life she had been chosen to read as others were chosen to write.
And at the end of the novel, the Queen thought that she had to seem like a human being all the time, but she seldom had to be one. She had people to do that for her.
Reading could not change that — though writing might.
And in addition to this, the last line gives us in superfine twist.
Delizioso è l'aggettivo che ha usato un'amica nel suggerirmelo.
Sì, in effetti lo è, peccato che verso metà libro trovo delle eccessive forzature e un picco di noia.
Vale la pena però di terminarlo per il colpo di scena finale.