A strong sun slants into the afternoon apartment. On a rooftop below me is a secret fountain: a laundry shop’s water-filtering system sparkles mingling water and sunlight. A fat book of priceless Audenalia (why are these collected essays of poets so good?), clotted cream and strawberries, and coffee wait. And the music? Frederica von Stade and Pavarotti. Is not Italian opera the golden sunlight of the late afternoon of Western culture?
Un desio ch’io non posso spiegar . . .
Unknowing 