Is travel then the mirage where
the real self itself becomes mi-
rage ..? When we are in Rome or
Athens, do they evade us, lost
under the scurrying modern life
imposed on them, an ancient ghost
behind a modern ghost? Do we meet
always and everywhere nothing but
ourselves?
Or are there, in Florence, for ex-
ample, moments when the emanation
of the past stamped on stone and
bronze surges up above the present,
with a greater order perhaps than
it ever had in the past? This is
surely so when, from Fiesole, we
see the dome of the cathedral like
a shield made of rust-coloured pet-
als guarding the city ..
Stephen Spender
World Within World
1951
Random House, 2001©
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