Memory, death, love, beauty, dreams – Brodsky touches on all of these in this wonderfully evocative book, says PD Smith. A very, very short prose-exercise by Nobelist Brodsky about Venice, his many wintertime trips there, the enchantment and ironies and visual. As much a brooding self-portrait as a lyric description of Venice, poet Brodsky’s quirky, impressionistic essay describes his year romance with a city of.
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But Brodsky pressed on: In fact, they don’t so much help you as kelp you.
Surely not a saint, but perhaps not yet a full-scale dragon; hardly a Theseus, but not a maiden-starved Minotaur either. Gradual subtraction, I thought to myself; how is this going to end? There are a number of passages where Brodsky is openly critical and mocking, such as this description of an architect: Then one day another friend, who is still alive, brought me a disheveled issue of [Life] magazine with a stunning color photo of San Marco covered with snow.
What woke me from my reverie was the sound of Susan’s voice, which meant that the record had come to a stop.
In fact, the whole city, especially at night, resembles a gigantic orchestra, with dimly lit music stands of palazzi, with a restless chorus of waves, with the falsetto of a star in the winter sky. In other words, especially in the evening, when one loses oneself to self-deprecation.
This time I was not alone, and my comrade-in-arms and I drew lots as brodskg who would have to sleep by the wall. I absolutely loved this reference to Italo Calvino side note: I looked at Olga. Sickness alone, no matter how grave it may be, won’t avail you here of an infernal vision.
Lists with This Book. The latter aspect, however, is of advantage to you if you go out on a short errand, say, to get a pack of cigarettes, for you can find your way back via the tunnel your body has burrowed in the fog; the tunnel is likely to stay open for half an hour.
Joseph Brodsky. Watermark | Личная библиотека и записная книжка
Whether that ichthus was a happy one is another matter. I walked a quarter of warermark mile along the Watfrmark Nuove, a small moving dot in that gigantic watercolor, and then turned right by the hospital of Giovanni e Paolo. The trundling of the carriage and the effect of its constant vibration on one’s frame did, I suppose, the rest, rearranging or messing up my muscles, etc.
His comment did not involve sex, he said, before changing the subject. Surfaceswhich is what the eye registers firstare often more telling than their contents, which are provisional by definition, except, of course, in the afterlife. Or maybe wwatermark was just that the heating in the carriage worked.
He is buried there. You fling the window open and the room is instantly flooded with this outer, pearl-laden haze, which is part damp oxygen, part coffee and prayers. I am not a moral man though I try to keep my watremark in balance or a sage; I am neither an aesthete nor a philosopher.
Seventeen years ago, wading aimlessly through one [campo] after another, a pair of green rubber boots brought me to the threshold of a smallish pink edifice. Among them were two raincoats, one mustard green and the other a gentle shade of khaki. Only their signs continue burning, finally getting a piece of the narcissistic action as the watemark briefly, superficially, catches up with the canals.
Watermark: An Essay on Venice by Joseph Brodsky – review
Be polite and don’t interrupt the lady; it’s garbage, but she believes it. Every surface craves dust, for dust is the flesh of time, as a poet said, time’s very flesh and blood; but here the craving seemed to be over. Though his voice is a sensual one and he is obviously thinking of sex whenever he looks at a Venetian cathedral or a torn up curtain or a crumbling apartment facade he lacks a power and a direction and a virility in his writing that I found very depressing from a nobel winner.
Comment on this Story. Plus, there is no doubt a correspondence betweenif not an outright dependence onthe rectangular wateemark of that lace’s displaysi. And the eye looks for safety and this it finds it in art, in Venetian art.
There was no hunger this night. This sounds, of course, like Statius talking to Virgil, but then it’s only proper for the likes of me to regard America as a kind of Purgatorionot to mention Dante himself suggesting as much. Depending on that invasion’s intensity, you get a scent, a smell, a stench. Both are capable of generating quite a lot.
In this city, they often belong to the same, and things get stalled rather early, even if the party is the PCI. Yet many a [frontone] here reminds you precisely of a headboard looming above its habitually unmade bed, be it morning or evening. What the winter light in Venice does to the eye: Equal parts extended autobiographical essay and prose poem, Brodsky’s book turns his eye to the seductive and enigmatic city of Venice.
Five foot ten, fine-boned, long-legged, narrow-faced, with chestnut hair and hazel, almond-shaped eyes, with passable Russian on those wonderfully shaped lips and a blinding smile on the same, superbly dressed in paper-light suede and matching silks, redolent of mesmerizing, unknown to us, perfume, the sight was easily the most elegant female ever to set a mind-boggling foot in our midst.
No light would have helped anyway, as the walls were covered with large, floor-to-ceiling, dark-brownish oil paintings, definitely tailored to this space and separated by watermzrk discernible marble busts and pilasters. Its particles’ only ambition is to reach an object and make it, big or small, visible.