Puzo's mafioso world presents an opulence so unique that it almost becomes one comfortingly encompassing - decorated with the simplicity and yearning for the "old times"; a picturesque Sicilian countryside, the air humidly adorned with a faintly citrus (pointedly lemony) scent, the heaviness of a decadent, rich and rustic passata, a lightly pungent saltiness of fresh seafood marrying with briny olives, and a distinct Europeanness which no longer exists. All this, mingled with classic, shallowly hidden bloodlust controlled through a complex system of sovereignty, veiled with deep respect for tradition, catholicism, and warped interpretations of power, law, control and ultimately, kingship.
Of course, the carefully controlled gangland elegance only remains tasteful through the unknowing, protective foils of each novel; the noble few, those encircled outside the bounds of violence, yet still prone to its emotional effects. I was just about to write that these foils are what make Puzo's novel's palatable, but that oversimplification would be a lie. For the true pull lies in the complexity of each mafioso character's psyche, involving both a sombre recognition of the necessity for their violent means in the interests of the greater good; yet an undying belief in their inevitable forgiveness so long as they seek it from God before their untimely execution.
I have grown to love the stark difference between the quiet and effortless beauty of the Italian countryside and the (dare I say duller?), American backdrop in its banal "civility", which make his buttery words the perfect accompaniment to the charismatically wry mob bosses he created. My words do not do justice to his novels; candidly descriptive, crafting narratives so consuming that many a time have I found myself completely immersed in his universes. My curiosity is also piqued by the fact that we ceaselessly romanticise the bloodiest, most violent criminals, as doomed, tragic, robin hood-esque figures - despite their crimes marring the very civilised society for which we claim to stand, their animal magnetism becomes their forgiveness. (There is a broader point to be made here and clear subtext for a future piece perhaps, but that is a tabled discssion).
And thus, I depart with something sordidly short - laziness to some, but truly a form of authorial experimentation. A fascinating conversation with a dear friend allowed me to finally note the gap between an audience's expectations (the tyrannical masses to some) versus simply writing for oneself. Waiting for inspiration to please the masses (not that I have drives of them eagerly awaiting my words), to drive me to write something winding is fruitless, when this piece is simply intended to be as it is - my prosed ode to Puzo's novels. Imperfect, yet crisp - my own writing, or his?
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