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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The only difference is that her heaven is far better settled than mine. I knew it would invariably come up that I did not really think the writer “that good. Now it will seep into the objects themselves, I thought, fuse with them, and in the end replace them All the “books” are shut tight, and you guess what they are about only by the names on their spines, under the doorbell.

I did all this. A metaphoror, to put it more broadly, language itselfis by and large open-ended, it craves continuum: I stared for a while at the furniture.

The City Nobel Laureate Joseph Brodsky Called Paradise

At sunset all cities look wonderful, but some more so than others. What Paradise and vacation have in common is that you have to pay for both, and the coin is your previous life.

I, for one, remember buying several items hereon credit, obviouslythat I had no stomach or nerve to utilize later. Later he might invite me over to his place for supper, and his pregnant wife, rising above the steaming pasta, would berate me volubly for my protracted bachelorhood In its autonomy, it is inferior only to a tear.

But I had the impression that he was looking for a challenge rather than an endorsement. Susan was saying, “But surely, Olga, you don’t think that the Americans got cross with Ezra over his broadcasts.

Perhaps the best proof of the Almighty’s existence is that we never know when we are to die. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Enter your comment here And the city and its water left in Brodsky their mark and as he thought that love is a one way street that is where he has stayed. And the eye looks for safety and this it finds it in art, in Venetian art. He did not like to hear them complain, after deploring the oppression and confinement of the Soviet system, that freedom offers too many possibilities, many of them disappointing.

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A miracle that, rubbed the right and the wrong way for over a millennium, it doesn’t have holes in it, that it is still H2O, though you would never drink it; that it still rises.

But since, like his wife, he, too, seemed to be a member of the CP, the job, I concluded, was best left to a comrade. A touch of your finger, let alone a breeze, would mean sheer destruction to them, as the shards of fabric scattered nearby on the parquet suggested. The answer, I believe, is yes.

WATERMARK by Joseph Brodsky | Kirkus Reviews

It is the telescopic sensation of coming in watrrmark with the cellular infinity of another body’s existencea sensation known as tenderness and proportionate perhaps only to the number of cells that body contains. It is a molecular affair, and happiness, I suppose, is the moment of spotting the elements of your own composition being free.

The Greeks were more on the dot with their bull, its neolithic pedigree notwithstanding. So we regarded the sight as the physical extension and embodiment of our ideals and principles, and what she wore, transparent things included, belonged to civilization. Be that as it may, for the next ten minutes, although we were moving in the same direction, I saw the arrow of the only person I knew in that city and mine diverge by at least 45 degrees.

Watermar, mirrors, reflection and water are the stuff of our eyes, Brodsky then proposes the most engrossing declaration I have read so far of the power and nature of the eye when searching for beauty.

Watermark: An Essay on Venice by Joseph Brodsky – review

At night, infinity in foreign realms arrives with the last lamppost, and here it was twenty meters away. 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. From a distance you couldn’t tell its nationality.

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Let’s have an illustration; let’s take a young maiden. Tea was served, but no sooner had we taken the first sip than the hostessa gray-haired, diminutive, shipshape lady with many years in her to golifted her sharp finger, which slid into an invisible mental groove, and out of her pursed lips came an aria the score of which has been in the public domain at least since Besides, in this city, the Church and the state have merged, in a perfectly Byzantine fashion.

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. Hence my sentiment for water, for its folds, wrinkles, and ripples, and–as I am a Northerner–for its grayness.

The piece was long, and now she felt somewhat worried, because she was approaching a passage where she had to turn the page without interrupting her play. As a result you shiver and go to bed with your woolen socks on, because radiators keep their erratic cycles here even in hotels.

I have no idea what kind of fish or bacteria these are, but I’m pretty sure they exist: It’s certainly better than a lot of other things written about Venice ahem, Ackroydbut the intricate tapestry of cultural allusions sometimes comes across more as obfuscatory name-dropping than erudition.