‘In the Id the principle
of non-contradiction does not apply.’
Freud
~~~
Night. Bed.
A
susurrus of distant whispers; the surf on the Lido. But it’s only S. breathing
quietly on her pillow.
We
travel in order to be lost. If we want
to be found we can stay at home. It’s
cheaper.
A
feeling of alienation comes suddenly upon the traveler after having been in
Venice for a few days. Being lost there
is not as it is in other places. Being
lost in the medieval warren that is Toledo in Spain is being lost in only two
dimensions. You’re merely displaced in
linear space from where you wish to be. But
when you’re lost in Venice you’re lost in three dimensions; you’re not only
displaced in a linear fashion from your desired destination, you feel as though
you’re lost in some third, unspecified, dimension. That’s confounding because Toledo is on a
hill and Venice is as flat as a board. There’s
no way you can be lost in vertical space there but the creepy feeling is that
you are. Or perhaps it’s time that’s the
missing dimension. You have the feeling
that not only are you not at your destination – that quotidian hotel, albergo,
restaurant, cafe, or campo where you have arranged your
rendezvous – it may not even currently exist.
It
doesn’t help that the map of Venice, when turned upside down, still looks
right-side up. Nor does it help that
Venice, even at noon, is in a perpetual twilight and that every shop looks like
one that you’ve seen just moments ago. That
paper shop; how familiar it seems. Those
are the identical leather bindings that we saw but half an hour since. That shop of mascherie looks
very much like the one we passed in the Ghetto.
Same owner? Same shop? Or is it coincidence? Perhaps we’re not lost at all; we simply
haven’t the wit to recognize that we’ve reached our goal.
Your
senses are already overloaded by the exotica for sale: Paper goods, glass
vases, parti-colored fish forever fixed in the glassy interior of a paper
weight (85 inches around), masks, costumes, leather-bound books, capes, cloaks,
tricornes, Punchinellos, antiques and faux antiques – Canalettos, Titians,
Veroneses – all gently pulsing in the golden Venetian twilight. Objects endlessly recurring in a riot of feathers, papier mache, leather, and silk. A welter of swords, canes, and objets en verre.
A
friend of mine explains in a restaurant – “A few years ago there was a butcher
shop on this street and a drug store, – you could live here – Now it’s all
masks, costumes, leather, and glass.” He’s
right.
Signs
point in opposite directions – both say ‘Rialto’.
Another
acquaintance confirms: “Street names mean nothing here, signore.”
Others
solemnly warn you against Venice; ‘It’s not healthy. The cold, the damp, molto artritico.’
To live
here would be an agony; it’s cold,
misty, foggy, and damp in the winter. Spring
brings warm rain and the mosquitoes (in 2002 I killed a dozen in my hotel room). In summer the canals smell like drains .. and
not good drains either. The acqu’alta
is likely to strike at any time. Always
there is the plague of tourists. (And it
is a plague; only Waikiki could possibly be worse.) Only autumn (late September or October) is
really bearable.
Venice
is an enigma; it is the home of esoteric knowledge, of Hermeticism, of Kabbala,
of the Tarot. Why has it never found its
Robert Byron or its Lawrence Durrell? [1] It’s a scheme; Casanova
planning his next conquest or your restaurant man passing off the shark as
scallops.
Florence is rational, a dream
of the Renaissance emerging from the Medieval in a shower of rose-colored glories. Venice is a grey contemplation of the Hidden
and Revealed, of Hermes Trismegistus. Venice’s
patron saint should be Giambattista Vico for Descartes has no place here. Ambiguity and obscurantism are the great themes of Venice. Whenever I dream in Venice
I’m always in a library. I’m hauling
down some musty volume of Casanova’s Vita or of Piccolomini. I’m surrounded by volumes by A.D. Nock, by Festugiere, .. , even Marx. There’s a sense in my dream of real urgency;
I’m always about to learn … it.
But I never do.
Muddled
identities, ambiguous sex. Misrule;
upset; reversal. Love affairs by small
bridges, of fights, strange cries and obscure alarms in the dark. And how much is just oneself? The other day
at sunset on the balustrade in front of San Marco, standing beneath the bronze
horses, we heard a muffled thud; it sounded as though half of Venice had blown
up. It was only New Year’s fireworks; …
perhaps I’m the only one who heard it.
Everywhere
is the smell of fresh pastry. It’s the
cries of the watermen like birds of prey swooping by in their barchieti. And around every corner the bright shop
windows. Last night a pretty shop woman
said, ‘You speak Italian well!’ At the time I was paying her 800 euro for a
turquoise necklace.
Damp
and dirty, decaying, decrepit (in San Marco the marbles are in ruins and cold
as death); even to me the city seems to have gone downhill since I first
visited in ’93. The garbage lies in street
corners; filth and decay, but then you wake up to a blanket of virginal snow.
The
other day, (was it today?), S. and I
crossed over the Ponte ‘Storto or ‘twisted bridge’. Who are they kidding? They’re all distorted. And don’t get me started on the campanili. They all lean at different angles (Santo
Stefano looks on the verge of collapse); Pisa has little to boast of with just
the single leaning campanile.
|
SS. Giovanni e Paolo, Santa Maria Formosa |
But I
was speaking of being lost. Here’s an
example of what happens:
Some
time ago I determined to visit the Church of the Zanipolo (Venetian dialect for
‘SS. Giovanni e Paolo’) and off I
ventured. I followed the map very
carefully and – for my pains – was led to the Church of Santa Maria di Formosa. A charming and important church, certainly,
but not my destination. I sat down,
consulted the map and set off again. By
following the map to the letter it was only a short time before I was led,
ineluctably, back to Santa Maria di Formosa.
In despair, and like the prophets of old, I lifted my face unto the sky
and, to be sure, I could see the top of the Zanipolo’s dome. Keeping it before my eyes – like the
proverbial column of smoke – I was able to guide my faltering steps there.
After
my visit I turned my back on it and crossed a little bridge away from the Campo
di Zanipolo. On the other side I turned
– like Lot’s wife – and gazed back. This
giant Gothic church (the largest in Venice save for San Marco itself) had
disappeared as utterly as though it had never existed. It had gone back into the same imaginative
space where we keep Aladdin’s cave – or Samarkand.
For
those who call the Zanipolo their own parish church the exterior world with its
linear streets and strictly numbered houses must be as alien and disconcerting
as the warrens of Venice are to the outsider.
Notes
[1] Although
in the Alexandria Quartet, in Balthazar I
think, there’s a brilliant bagatelle which has Venice as the setting. Subject?
Vampires.
Yes, I
find it in Durrell [1958] 196:
“When I was twenty, I went to Venice for the
first time at the invitation of an Italian poet with whom I had been corresponding,
…”
Bibliography
Durrell
[1958]: Durrell, Lawrence. Balthazar. Penguin. 1958.