Sarah Dunant's Birth of Venus

I have just finished my second book by Sarah Dunant, her first Renaissance novel, The Birth of Venus. Unlike my reading of Sacred Hearts, which I deliberately spread out over many weeks, I have read this one in about a week. Once again I am impressed by the research that went into the book. It is set in Florence in the late fifteenth century when the city was, in a wild post-Medici swing, under the sway of the preacher Savoranola. Earlier in the year I read Lauro Martines's book about this same period. I was most impressed again by the way the story is woven into the historical events.

And again the main character has a strong desire for study and knowledge which is, of course, my own main driver in life. Indeed, Alessandro is one of the most moving characters I have ever read of. Her great love of art is beautifully captured. I felt she would have been a wonderful person to know

My main complaints relate to the last part where decades are condensed into about 40 pages. Alessandro is less than 20 years old when the main action of the novel is over. It seems a shame to rush through forty years plus so quickly. I also found the scenes at the convent with the painter somewhat unconvincing, though I suppose it was a neat way to move Alessandro's daughter on her way.

Some scenes I found deeply moving. One where her mother disagrees with her view that she is ugly. The scene where she sees her father for the last time. And a scene below

"I have memorised Dante's geography of hell well. The wood of the suicides is near to the burning ground of the sodomites. Sometimes they rush in, beating down the flames that ignite constantly all over their scarred bodies and, as Dante would have it, on occasions there is time for them to stop and converse a little with other damned souls about art and literature and the sins for which they are all condemned. I would like that"

And so would I. Recently, an increasing number of times I have found myself desperately sad. What it would be to have someone to talk to about the thinks that interest me - the way Emma and I did when she was growing up. But she has her own life to lead now and, by contrast, I am left feeling such despair about my current life. I feel I have done a good job of helping Emma get to where she is now - I just need to think back to the horror of 1990 and what might have happened if other decisions (about which I had little say) had occured. Now, there is little more for me to contribute it seems. But for the moment at least, I am not thinking of following Alessandro's chosen path.

But no scene was more affecting to me than the final page where Alessandro comments on the alter painting she had made for her convent.

"My chapel is sadly mediocre. Should future connoisseurs of the new art come upon it they will glance at it for a moment and then pass on, noting it as an attempt by an inferior artist in a superior age. Yet, it has a feel for colour (that passion I never lost), and there are times when my father's cloth moves like water and the occasional face speaks of character as well as paint. But the compositions are clumsy and many of the figures, for all of my care, remain staid and lacking in life. If kindness and honesty were to be held in mutual regard, one might say it was the work of an older artist without training who did her best and deserves to be remembered as much for her enthusiasm as for her achievement

And if that sounds like a statement of failure from an old woman at the end of her life, then you must believe me when I tell you it is absolutely not

Because if you were to put it with all the others . . . then you would see it for what it is: a single voice lost inside a great chorus of others.

And such is the sound that the chorus made together, that to have been a part of it at all was enough for me"

For some reason, I have now been moved to tears on all three occasions that I have read this passage - perhaps because it speaks to my great wish to publish something academic that might have a little impact. And perhaps because I don't have anyone to share my desire for this with. Increasingly, such thoughts cause me a great deal of pain.

Make that four times . . .