August 4th, 2005

(no subject)

In Rome it's always very hot, much hotter than Paris, much more humid. I think I would like to go to Venice, I would like to see the canals: the ocean come to man. It would be wide and bright under the sky, but once you were between the houses there would be scum, it would be dark and mysteriously green; it's always like that where people live. Not a place for swimming, not the sort of water you can touch . . . it would not be friendly any more, not so much in the shade. You might drown, or Max . . .

Definitely Max.

I want to breathe again, I want to breathe deeply in and feel all young and new. The air here sticks in your lungs; it's much too old; too many people have breathed this air. It's quite used up, exhausted, dead and buried. Yet we go on dragging it into ourselves, like the fishermen's children who don't go to school and their thick rope nets, their identical futures. They, too, are in Venice of course, not here. Still I don't want to leave; I am looking for something, or maybe someone.