Wednesday, July 18, 2007

And what do you do to numb the pain, in between cathedral-gaping (a scarf around my shoulders, as the only dresses suitable to Italian July are denied entry by the Italian Church--Italy is too hot for Catholicism, oh there I said it) and museum meditating and street gadding and hostel gabbing--what do you do, oh? You are me and you read. In Montottone I finished the last two books I had bought in Madrid, A Hundred Years of Solitude by Garcia Marquez, and The Nymphs by Umbral, and read a great deal in my book of spanish poetas. In Rome I read Orlando by Woolf, finally, and now I too am in love with Vita Sackville-West. In Florence I am re-reading Orlando, because my gosh, but I found a spanish-language book shop in Rome and bought DON QUIJOTE at long last, so that will be for Florence. Really if you travel alone and are not a smoker going through a philosophical crisis I do not know what you do bookless. There are moments that need an occupation, thoughts coming in other than my-how-pretty-hot, beautiful places to sit and be for as long as possible and too many people to watch the whole time. To walk all day I, at least, need my thoughts in dialogue with those of another, and Woolf does marvelously.


Anonymous said...

I am stalking you through every means of cyber stalking available to me from here. Having been inexcusably remiss in terms of reading your blog, I tried to catch up and was overwhelmed by your beautiful whirlwind of words and images and people it is too late for me to try to get to know online. So we will just have to talk lots and lots and you will show me pictures and I can't wait to see your new haircut.

Anonymous said...

I also read a lot here, and write. And don't walk at all hardly? I miss freedom of wandering.