Cities, Like Dreams, Are Made Of Desires

Elsewhere Is A Negative Mirror. The Traveler Recognizes The Little That Is His, Discovering The Much He Has Not Had And Will Never Have.

You Walk For Days Among Trees And Among Stones. Rarely Does The Eye Light On A Thing, And Then Only When It Has Recognized That Thing As The Sign Of Another Thing: A Print In The Sand Indicates The Tiger's Passage; A Marsh Announces A Vein Of Water; The Hibiscus Flower, The End Of Winter. All The Rest Is Silent And Interchangeable; Trees And Stones Are Only What They Are.

If One Wanted To Depict The Whole Thing Graphically, Every Episode, With Its Climax, Would Require A Three-dimensional, Or, Rather, No Model: Every Experience Is Unrepeatable. What Makes Lovemaking And Reading Resemble Each Other Most Is That Within Both Of Them Times And Spaces Open, Different From Measurable Time And Space.

So Began Their Love, The Boy Happy And Amazed, She Happy And Not Surprised At All (nothing Happens By Chance To Girls). It Was The Love So Long Awaited By Cosimo And Which Had Now Inexplicably Arrived, And So Lovely That He Could Not Imagine How He Had Even Thought It Lovely Before. And The Thing Newest To Him Was That It Was So Simple, And The Boy At That Moment Thought It Must Be Like That Always.

The Contradiction [trying To Use Russian Model To Reshape Italy] Grew To Such An Extent That I Felt Totally Cut Off From The Communist World And, In The End, From Politics. That Was Fortunate. The Idea Of Putting Literature In Second Place, After Politics, Is An Enormous Mistake, Because Politics Almost Never Achieves Its Ideals.