There are no inanimate objects.
the islands of Italy combine all the elements - fire, water, earth, and air - and that is irresistible.
Collecting is like sex; satisfaction renews and creates new appetites.
Unhappiness makes beggars or accountants of us all.
Children hold us hostage; they represent our commitment to the future.
Violence is its own anesthetist. The numbness it induces feels very much like calm.
my love of water ... is mingled with and almost indistinguishable from a fear of water (I can float in a vertical position - I enter a fugue state - but I cannot bear to bury my face in water).
it's perfectly possible to hate one's fat and to love one's body at the same time.
One feels a quickening of the pulse when one crosses a border.
We are all proprietary toward cities we love. 'Ah, you should have seen her when I loved her!' we say, reciting glories since faded or defiled, trusting her to no one else; that others should know and love her in her present fallen state (for she must fall without our vigilant love) is a species of betrayal.
The real reason women fall in love abroad is not that they are free of domestic inhibitions but that they translate their love of stone and place into love of flesh. ... Is this true?
Nothing is more democratic, less judgmental, than water. Water doesn't care whether flesh is withered or fresh; it caresses aged flesh and firm flesh with equal love.
The past can be tamed and controlled.
All is waiting and all is work; all is change and all is permanence.
Italians do not regard food as merely fuel. They regard it as medicine for the soul, one of life's abiding pleasures.
In memory Venice is always magic.
Italians' relationship to food is loving, informal, and gay.
Italy offers one the most priceless of all one's possessions - one's own soul.
All our loves are contained in all our other loves.
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