Uniform Justice by Donna Leon: A review

I've been quite happily plowing through Donna Leon's series featuring Commissario Guido Brunetti, enjoying his relationships with his family and his colleagues at the Questura, and especially enjoying all the descriptions of the food and wine consumed by the Brunetti family. But all of those pleasantries cannot completely disguise the fact that this is a very dark series.

The title of this twelfth entry, Uniform Justice, could be read in different ways. The "uniform" might refer to the military which in this story comes in for a bollocking by the author. Or it might be read as ironic: There is no such thing as uniform justice; there is "justice" for the rich and a much less salubrious "justice" for the poor. However you read it or interpret it, it is a thoroughly depressing view of Venetian society and, taken in a larger sense, Western society as a whole.

This book begins with Commissario Brunetti being called to investigate the death of a cadet at an elite Venetian military school. The young man was found hanging in the bathroom of his dormitory. The scene gives every appearance of having been a suicide, but Brunetti is naturally suspicious and keeps an open mind on the subject.

When he learns who the victim was, he becomes more suspicious for he was the son of a doctor and former politician of impeccable integrity, a rarity in Venetian politics. The doctor had authored a critical report about military procurement practices and shortly thereafter, his wife had been "accidentally" shot in the leg in an area where there was hunting taking place. Brunetti learns that there was also an "accident" involving the doctor's mother who was hit by a car. The driver fled the scene and she was not too seriously injured. But now, the family faces the tragedy of a son's death.

As Brunetti attempts to investigate the death, he is met by a wall of silence from the family and from the military school. None of the boys at the school will admit to having been friends with the victim or even knowing him very well and, of course, no one has any idea what happened to him. Moreover, the authorities at the school seem particularly reluctant to provide cooperation or information. And the family, who should be crying for justice, are suspiciously quiet. Is this some kind of conspiracy, perhaps related to a coverup of the dodgy military procurement practices the doctor had documented? Will Brunetti ever be able to find a way to break the code of silence and bring justice to the victim?

Spoiler alert - the answer to that last question is a resounding "No!"

Leon has a very low opinion of the Italian military and the government and she gives free rein to her detestation of those institutions here. Justice seems a concept that is foreign to both entities. I can understand her feelings in the matter, but her expression of those opinions here comes at the expense of plot development and at the expense of those loving descriptions of homely meals in the Brunetti dining room. As a result, the book just left me depressed and unsatisfied.

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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