Invisible Cities
I have spent the last several days reading, and falling head over heels in love with “Invisible Cities” by Italo Calvino. There is absolutely nothing I don’t love about this book. The concept, the execution (I adore the form of the short monologue), the language and rhythm are absolutely sublime things, but past all that, it’s something I relate to very directly, and have never quite known how to frame in words.
I love the notion of talking about a single, beloved, city by talking about all other cities. I completely, totally and utterly relate to the notion that a city can be so much a part of you that you cannot talk directly about it or about how it makes you feel. It’s like me trying to describe London, and anything I come up with seems thin and weak, but more than that, it’s something I don’t want to directly share. For all the time I talk about how much I love London, I have never once come close to doing my feelings justice.
My love of London is mine, and to talk about it straight out would seem like sharing the intimacies of a relationship with a stranger. It’s acceptable to do it obliquely, to let others know by gesture, hint and slight intimation how you feel, but to say it blunt language is crude, unsubtle, and brutalises the delicate concepts and feelings that one speaks of. That sounds tremendously pretentious, but any human emotion or idea seems to me to be a fragile, insubstantial thing, that should be treated with care and respect.
I will be writing more about it later, I’m sure, but I wanted to set this down for now.