You come to a point in life when, among the people you've met, the dead outnumber the living.
Cities, like dreams, are made up of desires and fears, even if the thread of their speech is secret, their rules are absurd, their perspectives misleading and everything hides something else.
Arriving in each new city, the traveler finds a past of his that he did not know he had: the strangeness of what you are no longer or no longer has is waiting for you in foreign and unowned places.
The bridge is not supported by a stone or another, but by the line of the arch they form.
Memory is redundant: it repeats signs for the city to start to exist.
If you want to know how much darkness is around you, you should sharpen your eyes, scanning the dim lights in the distance.
The hell of the living is not something that will exist; if it exists, it is what is already here, the hell where we live every day, that we form by being together. There are two ways to escape suffering. The first is easy for many : accept hell and become a part of it that you will no longer be able to see it. The second is risky and requires constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the middle of hell, is not hell, then make them last, give them space.
Every time I describe a city, I'm saying something about Venice. The images from memory, once fixed in words, are erased. Maybe I'm afraid of losing Venice at once, if I'm talking about it. speaking in other cities, I have already lost it, little by little.
