![]() But each time we half-close our eyes, in the midst of the din and the throng, we are allowed to withdraw here, dressed in silk kimonos, to ponder what we are seeing and living, to draw conclusions, to contemplate from the distance. POLO: Perhaps this garden exists only in the shadow of our lowered eyelids, and we have never stopped: you, from raising dust on the fields of battle and I, from bargaining for sacks of pepper in distant bazaars. KUBLAI: I, too, am not sure I am here, strolling among the porphyry fountains, listening to the plashing echo, and not riding, caked with sweat and blood, at the head of my army, conquering the lands you will have to describe, or cutting off the fingers of the attackers scaling the walls of a besieged fortress. At the moment when I concentrate and reflect, I find myself again, always, in this garden, at this hour of the evening, in your august presence, though I continue, without a moment’s pause, moving up a river green with crocodiles or counting the barrels of salted fish being lowered into the hold. POLO: Everything I see and do assumes meaning in a mental space where the same calm reigns as here, the same penumbra, the same silence streaked by the rustling of leaves. It seems to me that you have never moved from this garden. KUBLAI: I do not know when you have had the time to visit all the countries you describe to me. –Henry Martin, author of Mad Days of Me: Escaping Barcelona, 2012 (2nd edition) So now, after more than two decades of reading what I consider to be quality literature, I have to shuffle my mental shelf and make room for Calvino, right next to my all-time favorites where he belongs. One thing is certain, and that is the undeniable truth that Italo Calvino was an amazing writer. Then again, I am probably wrong on all counts. These are the cities as metaphors for mortality, actions and consequences, continuity, faith… To this book also belong the conversations between Marco Polo and Kublai Khan, for these are truly philosophical. These are the cities that tell a story, a story of what will happen if we, as humans, do not change our ways. The second book is a book of cautionary tales. These are the cities that reflect human behavior, the cities that serve as metaphor for greed, anger, vanity, et cetera. To me, Invisible Cities is not a single book, but three separate books. The first one is a wonderful study of humanity. It is irrelevant and relevant at the same time, pointless and necessary at other times, while remaining non-contradictory. Then I thought I did not know, then I thought I knew again, and, in the end, I was reminded that I did not know. To be honest, I cannot quite describe what kind of book is Invisible Cities. And here comes the strangest part: I haven’t even noticed. Calvino is like a spy who sneaks in under the cover of darkness. Yet, they were all “in your face” at times. All of the aforementioned authors wrote fine literature, amazing actually. He did not force his way to me, he came unsuspected, veiled in beautiful prose. Girondo was thought-provoking-entertaining but not mind-altering.Ĭalvino managed to deliver where all of the above failed. Borges blew my mind-but only temporarily-he is amazing, but very systematic. Bolaño left me lukewarm-I was expecting more. He arrived on the heels of Bolaño, Borges, Ungar, and Girondo. Such was my encounter with Invisible Cities (Hartcourt Brace & Company, 165 Pages). That book manages to get under your skin in a very inconspicuous way, without you even noticing. It’s small, it looks interesting, and you buy it. Then, one day, you come across a gently used book. Most, if not all, pale with your favorites, do not fit with your ideas, or leave you cold. New books come along, and some attempt to quietly sneak in to your consciousness, while others attempt to shatter your world. You think you know what you like you think you know what to expect. Words and phrases are judged against those that provided comfort when you felt down ideas and executions are compared against the benchmarks established over the years. ![]() Any new book that you open, any new author that you discover is judged against your favorites, against the voices that stimulated your mind over the years. By now, you have reached mid age, and you have over two decades of serious reading under your belt. Your list of favorite authors and genres grows you find literary voices that speak directly to your soul. The more you read, the more selective you become. At first, you read anything and everything that found its way to your hands then, slowly you begin discovering your own, unique literary taste, and you become selective. You pass adolescence and enter the world of adult literature. ![]()
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