Letters to the Editor
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God forbid, Rose
God forbid that Venice should disappear. I would rather that my own hometown would do so, and that Venice should be saved instead.
Well, as mentioned, when discussing literary Venice, we can't hope not to slip into some pomp or cliche, so anyone with sensitive ears or easily-rolling eyes should cover them. I know this will sound pompous or cliched or self-important. Tough s---. I'm going in:
When I was five years old, my parents first took me there. Being a child, I remembered the beaches near Ravenna, but not Venice! But later, as an adult, I visited Venice again, and finally a third time, which I hope won't be my last. I'll never forget taking the vaporetto up the Grand Canal, or Canalozzo, and staring at the great houses, all hundreds of years old, all with the grandeur and splendour of a hundred Shakespearean actors, stirring the blood of the spectator with their soliloquys. Or landing at the airport on the water, and taking the water taxi to my hotel, the speedboat slamming the water until the city loomed up in front of us. Or going up the Campanile, and feeling not awed, but deprived, at no longer being in the thick of the city.
Visiting the Doge's Palace, and feeling that the ghosts inhabiting the place were more real than the tourists in front of me. Seeing the chambers devoted to the administration of the Republic, and instead of blanching at their Council of Ten's sinister grip on power, reflecting that their Republic must have been that day's most enlightened government. Seeing the palace armory's great, three-foot brass lanterns taken from the Turkish galleys during the Battle of Lepanto in 1571, and feeling that if I stared at them long enough, I'd be transported back to that day, to see for myself. Passing the Hotel Londra Palace, hearing the piano, and feeling as so many others had that there was some profundity even in a dissolute lifestyle, provided it happens in Venice. Seeing yet another place in Europe where Lord Byron had stood, and feeling that he might have written "Byron Wuz Here" on the columns. Seeing the Lion of St. Mark, and feeling that there was once a power here, even a spiritual power, that didn't admit of dissolution at all.
Magic.