By 2 am, I was glad to get lost again. The dimly illuminated arch and the entrance reflected from the sea of the green canal. My daughter, Vivian, 16 years old, and I was hunting lions in Venice.
Every year, if I feel a little out of the TRAP of this ancient tourist, probably the world's coolest tourist, the poet Joseph Brozky, who won the Russian Nobel Prize, did the same thing in the winter of 17. I was comforted by. The Bible “Oakushi” published in 1992: A bright, deep, and interesting impression of 135 pages, is called “the largest masterpiece produced by our seeds so far.”
Brozky's appeal to Venice was St. Petersburg (at the time, named Leningrad), and was colored in another city's canal in childhood. “I lived in a city where Conis used to seek clouds in a statue,” he wrote.
My own charm was for the childhood of Denmark next to the sloppy water area of the Baltic Sea. Viv? Walking around the city is the only endurance sport that we can participate in equally, and the settings are better than her telephone screen. She is the princess of the warrior here.
Venice recently charged a 5 -euro admission fee to hinder a horde of the summer Panny Packers Disney Suk. (The fee should be doubled in April.) But on the night of March, the city was as quiet and exciting as a gorgeous tomb. A whim of the frozen seaweed was blown off from the Adriatic Sea. VIV pulled out a mobile phone in a mischief, but the map app is used only as a last resort. I said “yet,” and she returned it to her pocket.
We climbed another staircase of more than 450 bridges and looked into the next alley following the square, and our lions were illuminated.
The marble beast called “Pileus Lion” was looted by Athens's main harbor in 1687, and was familiar to me, just like a family dog. It became a touchstone for many walks. The four mampusy marble lion stars, which protect the Arcenell gates in the ancient fleet of the city, have been reduced by the knowledge that the beast's ferocity was graffited on the side by looting the buffet.
I suppressed the normal desire to drone the lion's 23rd century history. Why kill intuitive beauty with data collected from a tourist book? The real joy of wandering in Venice is to make our ego OWN with a magnificence that cannot be defined. “This city is enough narcissistic to turn your heart into amalgam and does not burden its depth,” says Brozky. “After two weeks of stay, even in the off -season of the season -like a Buddhist monk K, you will be broken and you will be indifferent.”
“Cold and short sunlight order”
Throughout the 1960s, Brozky's free personality and poetry involved him in hot water with the Soviet authorities, and he was more and more annoying. A relatively unknown poet driven him out of the country in 1972 with a small leather suitcase packed with two bodies from the country.
He landed in Annar Bar, Michigan at the University of Michigan, where he continued to write as a poet in his place of residence. When he won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1987, a charismatic writer became a literary popster and packed his melodic readings around the world.
“Omakashi” wants to arrive at the main station in Venice in 1972 and seduce Russian acquaintances. She rejected him, but instead he was tempted by the smell, surface, mood, and taste that he gently described in detail like a lover. “Love is a relationship between reflection and the subject,” says Brozky. “This is finally back to this city.”
He returned almost every winter when he enjoyed Venice, which is not covered by tourists. “This is a big season for cold and short sunlight orders,” he wrote. “Everything is difficult and harsher.”
“Duffy oxygen, coffee, part of prayer”
In the Bohemiandor Soduro area on the southern shore of the Grand Canal, I met Robert Morgan (82 years old), an American expatrier, as some bars showed signs of “no tourists.” Half century in Venice, Morgan works in the studio every day and depicts a sky blue cityscape. When both men were in their late 20s, he was introduced to Brozky and created a bond following the grave.
“We were bachelor in love in this place, so we took them with each other,” Morgan told me. “We walked, often talked all night without a major purpose, but we tended to hit many women, cocktails and Sitchetti.”
CICCHETTI is a Venice version of Tapas and exempts Venice, a mediocre tourist restaurant in the 2nd century. These snacks were indispensable for VIV and my nightfield routine. Instead of having a meal at a restaurant, we made a bar to walk to the next suitable place for fresh cod, cotton finger sandwiches, pickled vegetables, and other bite.
“Joseph knew that he ate here, where he was eating better than the Soviet People's Committee.
Morgan invites me to his flat with his bright paintings and flowers, and his sparkling writer's wife, Ewa, 52. Tea was provided and the gossip and the story were shared. Brodsky's playful spirit has animated his teenage friends. “I was able to see cigarette smoke and all behind Irish whiskey,” said Morgan. “Even if you enjoy the entire table, you will always create a mental notebook.”
I wandered for 10 minutes east of Morgan's apartment, Calle Querini, a dead end. There, the salmon -colored house was a provocative literary encounter setting on the 252th salmon house. A marble plaque on the narrow front door explained that this was where the American poet Ezla Pound lived with his lover Orga Rudge. BRODSKY squeezed this door five years after the death of Pound, and for the tea with his girlfriend, Susan Sontag, and a rutge protected by the bust of the three -foot cock. I wrote about squeezing.
BRODSKY translated pounds into Russian in adolescence, but Rudge's PRO-MUSSOLINI's remarks and oppressive babies rushed back on this small street at night with Sontag and Brozky. Bust is currently located in the National Museum of Art in Washington.
The morning after a night walk, Viv and I appeared on San Marco Square, the main square of Venice. The pale winter sun rose across the lagoon, and the weak rays exploded unexpectedly from the five dome of San Marco, turned into a lighthouse against lead sky.
Brodsky explained the winter morning as “wet oxygen, some coffee, prayer.” This was our last stop. Usually, Brozky is often able to relax in these chairs with cigarettes and espresso.
Venice, forever
BRODSKY's chain smoking and the poor health of life defeated him in New York at the age of 55. A cemetery island of San Mikele, just north of Venice.
The funeral does not mean that there was no last drama in this dramatic man's life. Morgan said that after the brosky Italian publisher Robert Calasso, Cortis, had floated the lagoon and found that the tomb was not adjacent to the pound. “Roberto and I told Grave Diger that there was no way he could bury it. They rushed to find a place away from a few yards. When CO arrived, they were still dug.”
Last night, Viv and I jumped to Vaporet and went to San Mikele. “I knew that the water felt like the water was being made in the water,” Brozky wrote sensually about the voyage to the dead island. He was often upset here between many expulsions of Russian tombs, especially composer Igor Stravinsky and Ballet Impreza Serge Diagirev.
Viv and I wandered on the familiar white marble tombstone at the end of the protestant section where two Ukraini women in the mini skirt were taking selfies. Brosky seduces even from the grave.
San Mikele was closed at 6:00 pm, and Venice's nightlights have returned to a small pier across the graveyard because the Nightlights of Venice crossed the lagoon and set up AGLOW in the medieval tower. The fog in the evening crossed the wall and danced around the cypress tree like a ballerina. One of the cats in the cemetery of San Mikele approached Viv while waiting for VaporeTTO. This reminded me of the “watermark” line. To become a cat there, everything, even rats, are always in Venice. “
