By 2:00 am, we got lost again. The dimly illuminated arch and the entrance are reflected on the surface of the green canal. My daughter Vivian (16) and I went for a lion hunting in Venice, which has been an annual annual.
Even if you feel a little ridiculous to come to this ancient tourist trap every year, perhaps the world's coolest tourist, the Russian Russian Russian Nobel Prize Poet Joseph Blotsky is the same during the winter. I was comforted that many people brought the following thoughts as follows. The travelogue bible “Watermark” published in 1992: 135 pages have been produced so far, which is a vivid, deep, and interesting impression of Brotsky about the city that we called the “masterpiece of humanity”. Ta. “
Brotsky's charm for Venice was colored during his childhood in the canal city of St. Petersburg (then named Leningrad at the time), where he lived in a shared apartment on a lively street where the Imperial Palace lined up. there was. “I once lived in a city where the corners of the cloud were in the city where the clouds were in the cloud of clouds,” he wrote.
My own charm was formed by the childhood of the Denmarks who spent next to the Baltic Sea. What is Viv? Strolling in the city is the only endurance sport that can be participated in equal and that settlements of her mobile screen. She is a war princess here.
Venice has recently been talked about by collecting 5 euros admission to prevent a horde of Disney -style summer Panny Packers. (The fee should be doubled in April.) But this night, the city was as quiet and exciting as a gorgeous grave. The smell of frozen seaweed was blown by the Adriatic Sea. Viv has taken out a mobile phone in a mischief, but we only use the map app as a last resort. “I'm not yet,” she returned to her pocket.
We climbed one staircase of more than 450 bridges in the city and looked around the next alley. There was a lion that was lit up like an altar.
The marble beast called Pileus's Lion was looted by Athens's major ports in 1687, and was as familiar to Viv and me as a domestic dog. It became a many -way test stone for our walk. The ferocity of this beast, which is a star of the four disproportionate marble lions that protects the Arsenare gate to the ancient fleet of the city, is graffiti on the side by looting our relatives, buffet. It was alleviated by the knowledge that it was done.
I suppressed my usual desire to know more about the lion's 23rd century history. Why kill intuitive beauty with data collected from sightseeing books? The real pleasure of walking around Venice is to sink our ego in the unprotected magnificence. “This city is so narcissist that it turns people's hearts into amalgam and releases the burden from the bottom of the heart,” says Brotky. “Even if it is a off -season fee, if you stay for two weeks, you will be like a Buddhist monk and you will be selfless.”
“The necessity of cold and short sunlight”
Through the 1960s, Brotsky's bohemian personality and poems have conflicted him with the Soviet authorities, and has become more and more troublesome. The relatively unknown poet grew into an international celebrity, but was finally expelled in 1972 with only a small leather suitcase packed with two vodka.
He arrived at the University of Michigan in Annerbar, Michigan, where he continued to write a masterpiece as a stay poet. When he won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1987, the charismatic writer became a popster for literature and filled the auditorium around the world with melodic reading.
The Watermark begins in 1972 when Brotsky arrives at Central Station in Venice for the first time to tempt a Russian acquaintance. She refused him, but he was tempted to explain the smell, surface, atmosphere, and taste in detail, as a lover. “Love is an event between the reflection and its subject,” wrote. “After all, this will call people back to this city.”
He returned almost every winter and enjoyed Venice without tourists. “Now it's a season when the colors are small and the cold and sunshine are remarkable,” he wrote. “Everything is more difficult and harsher.”
“Some oxygen is wet, coffee and prayer.”
In the Bohemian Dolsoduro area on the southern shore of the Large Canal, several bars have a signboard for “Tourists”, but I am an American reporter Robert, an American painter who dedicated “Omakashi”. I met Morgan (82 years old). Half a century has been half a century since living in Venice, Morgan is drawing a sky blue cityscape in the studio every day. He was introduced in his late twenties and a bond to the tomb.
“We were both in an exiled person who loved this place, so we met each other,” said Morgan. “We often walked and talked overnight without a big purpose, but we often met many women, cocktails and chicketti.”
Chicetti is a Venice version of the Tapas, and will release Venice from ordinary tourists for the second century. These snacks were indispensable for viv and my night's food procurement routine. Instead of having a meal at a restaurant, we walked around the bar from the bar and walked back to the next valuable place while picking fresh cotton, cotton finger sandwiches, pickles of vegetables, and other snacks. 。
“Joseph made a joke that he knew he was eating something more delicious than the Soviet People's Committee, who had a lot of trouble with him,” said Morgan Morgan. Was told.
Morgan invited me to his apartment with bright pictures and flowers, and his shining writer Ewa, 52, was taking care of him. Tea was issued, and gossip and story were shared. Brotchy's playfulness lived a friend of his 80s. “I saw cigarette smoke and Irish whiskey at all,” Morgan said Morgan. “Even when hospitality of the entire table, I always take notes in my heart.”
I walked to Querini Street, as the dead end from Morgan's apartment for about 10 minutes east. So the salmon -colored house at 252 was the stage of provocative literary encounter in the Watermark. On the marble nameplate above the narrow front door, this is where the American poet Ezla Pound broadcasts a fascist propaganda during World War II, and lived with a mistress Olga Ludge. It was explained that it was a place. Five years after the death of the pound, Brotky slips out of the doorway, along with a rutge and tea with a girlfriend and writer Susan Sontag, and is protected by a pound of pounds like a three -foot high. I'm writing about the time.
Brotsky translated pounds into Russian when he was young, but Sontag and Brotsky rushed to this small street at night due to the parent's parent Mussolini's remarks and a repressive bust. This bust is currently in the National Museum of Art in Washington.
One morning after a walk all night, Viv and I went to San Marco Square, the main square of Venice. The pale winter sun rose over the lagoon, and the weak rays explode unexpectedly from the five dome of San Marco, and turned them into a lighthouse against the background of the lead -colored sky.
Brotsky described the winter morning here as “part of wet oxygen, coffee and prayer.” As expected, while the waiter was pulling out the table and chairs from the surrounding cafes, the bell of the bell tower began to sound for the morning mass. This was our last destination, as it was always the case for Brotsky. Brotchy often relaxed while drinking cigarettes and espresso in this chair.
Venice, forever
Brotky fell in New York at the age of 55 due to continuous smoking and lifelong health defect. Just six years ago, when I was a student, when I was participating in Brotsky's lecture, Maria Sotzani, an Italian wife, arranged his burial. A cemetery on San Michele, just north of Venice.
In this dramatic man's life, the funeral did not mean that there was no last drama. Mr. Morgan told me that Brotsky's Italian Italian publisher Robert Calasso had found that his companion went to the graveyard before crossing the lagoon, and that the tomb was adjacent to the other pound grave. Ta. “Roberto and I told the graves that I couldn't bury him, so I hurriedly found a place away. When the coffin arrived, they were still digging.”
On the last night, Viv and I jumped to Vaporet and crossed to San Michele. There, the Itosugi tree stood on the wall of the island like a ghost sail. “I knew what it was like to be stroked by the water,” said Brotsky sensually wrote about the voyage to the dead island. He often stays here in the tombs of many exile Russians, especially composers Egori Stravinsky and Ballet Brancher Selge Diagirev, and the dancers still have a slippers on his tombstones. There is.
Viv and I walked around the familiar round white marble tombstone at the end of the Protestant district. There, two Ukraini women wearing a mini skirt despite the cold were taking selfies. Brotky seduces even from the grave.
San Michele closed at 6:00 pm, and while the Venice night view shines over the lagoon, we returned to a small pier across the graveyard. The evening fog crossed the wall and danced around the Itosugi tree like a ballerina. While we were waiting for Vaporett, one of the cats in the cemetery in San Mikele approached Viv. It reminded me of the “watermark” line. There's a cat, a rat, whatever, but always in Venice. “
