So I very much expected the author to wax descriptive and poetic about the glories and joys of a half century in Napoli.
Not so much.
You know what it sorta reminded me of?
There is this scene in Sense and Sensibility in which the Dashwood sisters are discussing Edward and how the elder Miss Dashwood feels about him. Marianne is underwhelmed by Elinor's proclamation of undying passion,
"I do not attempt to deny that I think very highly of him, that I greatly esteem him."
I was less moved than I expected by Shirley Hazzard's dispatches from Naples.
I was wanting something...
more open, loud, affectionate, all-embracing, all-pervading, boisterous, bellicose, beautiful,
something more akin to a Neapolitan style.
I've read Sense and Sensibility, so I will not doubt the author's affection and esteem for Naples, but I did not get (to my mind) and authentic taste of Naples in this particular volume.