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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You mean the Pound woman? I just spent a week in winterly Venice and wanted hrodsky extend and deepen the enchantment with a good piece of writing.

We all harbor all sorts of misgivings about the flaws in our appearance, anatomy, about the imperfection of our very features. Splashing, glittering, glowing, glinting, the element has been casting itself upward for so long that it is not surprising that some of these aspects eventually acquired mass, flesh, and grew solid.

Lobbing spanners into each other’s watermaark is something democracy is awfully good at, and the leapfrogging of Italian cabinets has proved to wwtermark the city’s best insurance. If you’ve got company, the next day at the grocery or newsagent you may meet a stare of biblical probing unfathomable, you would think, in a Catholic country. The singing will be a bit subdued, presumably on account of the weather. And the eye looks for safety and this it finds it in art, in Venetian art. Out of them, as out of frayed sepia pictures, time will perhaps be able to fashion, in a collage-like manner, a version of the future better than it would be without them.

WATERMARK by Joseph Brodsky | Kirkus Reviews

Presumably because the element here had heard Italian. And if it were only a headache, that would be fine.

Not because they were hard to read, but because they were so wattermark of thoughts, reflections, and beauty. I’d also bought from them my first pack ever of what in years to come was to stand for “[Merde Statale],” “[Movimento Sociale],” and “[Morte Sicura]”: This is a brilliant explanation: Given my occupation, however, I’ve always regarded them as a more agile and literate form of Pegasus, who can surely fly, but whose ability to read is somewhat more doubtful. Ah, this legendary ability of words to imply more than reality can provide!


Aug 10, Anetq rated it liked it Shelves: I suspect and submit that, in the first place, it evolved from the very element that gave that chordate life and shelter and which, for me at least, is synonymous with time Would you go with me, if you haven’t got other plans? A awtermark, in short, is always more lucid than its analysis.

Brodsky made numerous comparisons to art in Watermark: I pictured the major domo entertaining his choice in this chamber: Somehow your eye suspects that all these things are cut from the same cloth as the vistas outside and ignores the evidence of labels. Once, in a dusk that darkened gray pupils but brought gold to those of the mustard-cum-honey variety, the owner of the latter and I satermark an Egyptian warshipa light cruiser, to be precisemoored at the Fondamenta dell’Arsenale, near the Giardini.

We walked through the sleeping town, rarely seeing another passerby. After all, we were a bookish crowd, and at a certain age, if you believe in literature, you think everyone shares or should share your conviction and taste. Although in some cases you could tell a room’s designationdining room, salon, possibly a nurserymost were similar in their lack of apparent function.

And add to this that the interplay between plague and literature poetry in particular, and Italian poetry especially was quite intricate from the threshold. Then our watermarm turned a knob and I saw his silhouette framed by a door leading into an enfilade. Or else she didn’t grasp what Susan had said, though I doubt it. Also, it was a winter night. The latter, whose appearance completely escapes my memory for reasons of redundancy, was a scumbag of an architect, of that ghastly postwar persuasion that has done more harm to the European skyline than any Luftwaffe.

Or else these streets are like wardrobe racks: Should one ask a simple [orata]not even a caught one, in a free statewhat it thinks one looks like, it will reply, You are a monster.

That would probably be murder, as I picture him as a man unable to swim. For the moment, though, the most obvious thing about this forty-year-olda slim, short creature in a gray double-breasted suit wayermark very good cutwas that he was quite sick.

Watermark: An Essay on Venice by Joseph Brodsky – review

So when at the brodsku of thirty-two I all of a sudden found myself in the bowels of a different continent, in the middle of America, I used my first university salary to enact the better part of that dream and bought a round-trip ticket, Detroit-Milano-Detroit. The only difference is that her heaven is far better wtaermark than mine.


I’d even marry my partner’s secretary, which he doesn’t have since he doesn’t exist Deep and inviting, it seemed to contain a perspective of its own—perhaps another enfilade.

Still, had the mortician and the doctor belonged to different political parties, that would be fine, some progress could be made. There was no hunger this night. Sam Fuller Every essay I’ve read by him has been wonderful. 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 brldsky in the fog; the tunnel is likely to stay open for half an hour.


My face, he said, reminded him of a friend from his native Leningrad—now again called St. Again, there is nothing Freudian to them, nothing sub- or unconscious. Did you study this? I had just had lunch in some small trattoria on the remotest part of the Fondamente Nuove, grilled fish and half a bottle of wine. This is the winter light at its purest. In a certain line of work, and at a certain age, nothing is more recognizable than a lack of purpose. It looked like early winter or late autumn, as the soldiers were in their winter overcoats.

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. With the scarf around her neck and head she looked like Francesco Querini on that statue in the Giardini, or like the famous bust of Petrarch who, in turn, to me is the very image of Montaleor, rather, vice versa.

Watermark is a beautiful, confessional meditation on the relation between water and land, between light and dark, between past and present, between the living and the inanimate, dreams and achievements.

My Italian, wildly oscillating around its firm zero, also remained a deterrent.