My own story

“Buona sera, grazie mille,” I thanked the cab driver as I quickly exited the trusty taxi that had just dropped us at the Siena train station. It was a few minutes past nine (21:00, that is) and our six-person gruppo needed to catch the 21:18 if we were going to make it home that night. Thankfully we made it with a few minutes to spare, and soon we were taking our seats on Saturday’s last Florence-bound train. A sense of relief flooded over the six of us, thankful to be on our way back to Firenze where we could catch a connecting train home. After a week’s stay in Florence, we had spent the day in Siena exploring the beautiful Tuscan hill town, but we had no intention of spending that night anywhere but our apartments back in Rome. With a heavy load of schoolwork to be done by Monday and empty pockets from a week of Florentine leather market perusing, we felt a sense of comfort knowing that in a few hours we’d finally be back in the Eternal City.

Our train rolled into Florence’s Santa Maria Novella Station just before eleven and we gathered at the end of the platform as Katie, a member of our gruppo, went to double-check departure times. Earlier that day I had jotted down a couple of the latest trains we could take that night, but we hadn’t bought tickets yet because we weren’t sure exactly when we would be back from Siena. A few minutes later, Katie returned with a clearly distressed look. She sighed as she told us, “Guys…the next train isn’t until 6:30 tomorrow morning.” We stared back at her with gaping mouths, shocked that neither of the trains we were counting on would be taking us back to Rome tonight. What in the name of Medici were we going to do?

After a few minutes of evaluating the situation, we decided to make absolutely certain that no train would be leaving for Rome before 6am. One of the few workers still at the station informed us that no, we were out of luck at Santa Maria Novella, but there were night trains running at Campo di Marte, the smaller station across town. The six of us quickly decided that this was our chance, and hastily hailed a cab to the other station. As our taxi sped across Firenze, we waved goodbye to the Duomo and the Florentine facades we had grown to love that week, but were ready to leave.

We pulled up to Campo di Marte, crossing our fingers for a night train to Roma, and sprinted into the station. Our hopes were crushed, however, as we scanned the departure times – the next train home wasn’t until after 7am. Forlornly, we dragged our feet along the platform with no real destination before hearing “Ciao! Ciao!” Having grown accustomed to Italian catcalls, we ignored the greeting until we realized it was coming from two formidably attired carabinieri who sternly demanded our passports. We waited nervously as the carabinieri read our information into their radios. I’m sure the same thought was running through all of our heads: paying for a hotel room would have been better than spending the night in a Firenze jail cell!

Thankfully, our passports were returned to us with only a few questions about our travel plans, and when the carabinieri learned that we were trying to get back to Rome that night, they pointed to a train a few platforms over and told us that it was about to leave for Roma. Frantically the six of us raced over to the train, limbs flailing and luggage dragging in a desperate attempt to make it home. We had just barely arrived when the conductor at the other platform corrected us – this train was going to Naples, not Rome. Thoroughly discouraged and now out of breath, we had to accept our fate. We weren’t making it out of Florence that night.

We stepped out onto the freezing, empty street and gazed around at the quiet store fronts, all boarded up for the night. With no other option, we chose to do the American thing – settle into one of Italy’s many McDonald’s. Open until 4am, this fast food establishment served as our warm haven until we made our decision. Should we pay for a few measly hours in a hotel or tough it out in the cold until the 6:30 train? As the sole male member of group, Ryan volunteered to venture out and see what he could find out about a cheap place to stay. Soon he returned with an offer we found hard to turn down – a nearby hostel for 22.50 euro per person. Defeated and exhausted, we gave in. It was almost 2am and we weren’t getting home to Roma, no matter how badly we wanted to or how hard we tried.

Though it cost us a collective 135 euro, we made the right choice. The hostel was clean, safe, and more comfortable than I expected, plus it gave us something that resembled a full night’s sleep. The next morning, we caught a 9:00 train and finally stumbled into our apartments around noon, drained and weary, but exhilarated from a night spent unlike any other before.


Writing response:

From writing this story, the most apparent thing I learned was how to cut out unnecessary details. I’ve realized I put in extra words and extra sentences, which is good when writing a really descriptive piece but when I’m trying to convey a message, sometimes it gets muddled. I would have liked to write this longer and include more thoughts and details of what happened because we had such a crazy night, but I think that this length showed the events and still conveyed the emotions we felt.

Benevenuto/Roman Hours reading response

In Roman Hours, the author makes himself much more accessible in the way that he portrays himself as weaker and more flawed. He speaks of how awestruck he was as a boy by such a lavish apartment, and how that apartment still has a hold over him now, which shows a human characteristic with a sense of fragility, whereas The Life of Benevenuto seemed a lot more like an attempt to impress. Something about his tone and the anecdotes he uses makes Cellini’s piece seem like an attempt at proving himself and asserting his skill and abilities. I think both are equally conscious of the reader’s presence, as each one is portraying an important feeling, but Cellini’s piece seems more like an attempt to impress the reader. I think because of this Aciman’s piece is more believable. As I said before, it’s more accessible and personally, I can relate to his feeling of awestruck wonder walking around Rome. I loved Aciman’s piece and I thought it was a more pleasant read, but part of that was the relation I felt to it because it was written in more present times about very familiar places.

My fable

There once was a town called Crayola, a place of great variety, where no two inhabitants looked exactly the same. Its plain cardboard walls contained vibrant streets filled with townspeople of every shade imaginable, from lemon yellow to robin’s egg blue. These townspeople, called Crayons, sent their children to the Academy of Chromatics, where young Crayons learned important things about their world, like why red mommies and yellow daddies have orange babies.

Children of all colors attended this school, but the most popular of them all was a little girl named Patricia. Patricia was a beautiful shade of neon pink, and her vivid hue complimented her bubbly personality perfectly. Her outgoing behavior and attractive color made it very easy for Patricia to make friends with the other children, and she was always the center of attention. Unfortunately though, she wasn’t always a very nice young lady. Patricia’s father was one of the wealthiest Crayons in town and since the moment she was born, Patricia had received every doll, dress or dessert she ever requested, and she was used to getting her way.

Another student at the Academy was a young boy by the name of Brandon. Brandon lived with his parents in one of the poorer areas of Crayola, and instead of sporting fancy new shoes every week like Patricia, Brandon rarely owned a pair of sneakers that his older brother hadn’t worn thin a couple of years before. Though he was very kind and caring, Brandon was also horribly shy and spent most of his time alone. To make matters worse, he was a plain shade of brown, making him an endless target of schoolyard teasing.

Every year on Patricia’s birthday, her father threw her an extravagant birthday party, with all of her favorite treats and whatever entertainment she desired, whether it was a petting zoo or a traveling circus. All of the children in town loved Patricia’s birthday parties and eagerly awaited their invitations in the mail. This year, however, Brandon’s mailbox was empty. The little brown crayon sadly dragged his feet into house and sat down at the kitchen table where his mother Betsy flipped through the Crayola Daily Chronicle. Noticing her son’s visible distress, Betsy asked him what was wrong, and when Brandon told her about the missing invitation, she reassured him it must just be a mistake.

“Go ask her tomorrow at school,” Betsy advised him. “Maybe she had our address wrong. I’m sure she meant to send you one.”

The next day before class, Brandon walked up to Patricia in the hallway where she was surrounded by a multicolored group of giggling schoolmates. Mustering up every ounce of courage he had, Brandon tapped Patricia on the shoulder. As she turned to face him, Brandon quietly explained his empty mailbox, nervously grinning as he suggested that maybe his invitation had gotten lost in the mail.

Patricia stared back at him for a second before she burst into laughter. “Your invitation wasn’t lost,” she replied. “I didn’t send one! I don’t want a loser like you at my birthday party!” All the other students in the hall joined Patricia in pointing and snickering at Brandon as he ran off down the hall in shame.

That weekend at Patricia’s party, all the children of Crayola – that is, except Brandon - brought presents in colorfully wrapped boxes and bags. After they had all stuffed themselves with cake and ice cream, it was time for Patricia to open her gifts. She excitedly tore at the first one, a striped package from her best friend Gretchen, a spring green Crayon with evergreen freckles. However, once she had ripped away the wrapping paper, Patricia’s beaming grin fell into a stormy frown.

“I already have this doll,” she pouted. “And I didn’t even like it in the first place.” Gretchen looked around the room in horror, completely embarrassed by bringing such an unacceptable gift to the party of the year. The rest of the presents were opened in the exact same fashion though, with Patricia promptly insulting each and every one. By the time she had whined about the final gift, all of the other kids at the party were more than ready to leave. Patricia had hurt the feelings of all the children of Crayola and this was the last straw. As the last of her supposed friends filed out her front door, Patricia yelled after them, “Fine! I don’t need any friends anyway! I’d rather be all alone!”

That Monday, Patricia walked into the Academy of Chromatics determined not to speak to anyone. She was better off by herself, she reasoned, and her wish was granted. None of the other children would even acknowledge her presence and the little neon pink Crayon spent her entire day alone, even sitting at her own table at lunch. When she felt a pang of loneliness, Patricia reminded herself how lucky she actually was – most days she ended up sharing all her cookies because they were from the best bakery in Crayola, but today, she had them all to herself. Little carnation-colored tears welled up in her eyes as she forced the last bite of cookie into her mouth, feeling a bit sick from all of the sweets.

When she got home that day, Patricia decided to have a tea party with her toys; after all, they couldn’t ignore her like all of the kids at school. As she set her little table and poured the cups of tea, Patricia turned to her favorite doll and asked her about her day. Not surprisingly, the doll stared mutely back without a word. Patricia sighed in disappointment. With no one to talk to, she was starting to feel quite isolated and lonesome.

“I’ll go for a walk,” she said to herself, thinking that the fresh air and colorful streets would perk her up. At first, her idea did the trick – with the waves from her neighbors and the smiling faces of the vendors lining the streets, Patricia didn’t feel so alone. After a bit of walking and a few wrong turns however, Patricia began to feel much worse. She had left her familiar neighborhood and had no idea where she was; Gretchen had always been the one who was good with directions. Patricia was terrified and felt more lost than ever, so she sat down on the curb and began to cry. Through her sobs she could hear footsteps approaching. She lifted her head to see Brandon staring back down at her tear-streaked face.

“Are you lost?” he asked her, tilting his head curiously. She sniffled and peered around the street before looking back up at him and nodding. Brandon thought to himself for a second, then smiled and extended his hand to her.

“Here, take my hand,” he offered. “Let me help you up.”

Stunned, Patricia took his hand and pulled herself to a stand, brushing off her peony-colored sundress. Why was this boy being so nice to her? She had made him the laughingstock of Crayola, yet he was the only child in town who would speak a word to her.

Her train of thought was broken by Brandon’s voice. “If you’d like, I can help you get home,” he offered. Thankfully she accepted, and the pair headed back to Patricia’s neighborhood. As they arrived at her front door, Patricia turned to Brandon and asked him why he would show her such kindness after what she had done. Brandon shrugged and answered simply, “It’s what I would want someone to do for me.” Patricia smiled back at him and began to open the door before spinning back around and wrapping her arms around Brandon in a grateful hug. After a moment, she stepped into the house, leaving Brandon blushing on the front step.

That night, Patricia climbed into bed feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Brandon had taught her an invaluable lesson – if she wanted to be treated with kindness, she must show others the same. The next day at school, she apologized to all of the children and promised never to treat them so badly again. Once again, Patricia was surrounded by friends, but this time with Brandon by her side.

My response:

What process did you use to select and narrow down anecdotes to use in your piece?

When picking anecdotes in my piece, I wanted to choose elements that would go together logically in a story, but would build on each other and become more significant, as the assignment mentioned. For example, in my second cycle of actions, I picked three things that Patricia would do by herself, with each one making her realize a little more how lonely she was.

Is your Resolution positive or negative?

My resolution is positive – Patricia realizes how she should treat people and becomes a better person because of it.

What is the Moral?

My moral is to treat others how you would like to be treated. This concept is sometimes called the “Golden Rule” and I really believe in it – treating people with respect is really important to me and I think that kindness is often an overlooked characteristic these days.

Do you think your Reversal comes off successfully; does it “surprise” the reader? Why or why not?

I think my second reversal is more surprising than my first. In the first reversal, Patricia just goes from being very popular to very lonely, which is a big change, but not as drastic as her change in attitude that comes in the second reversal.

Did you return to Machiavelli’s fable as an example and point of reference while you constructed your piece?

Machiavelli’s piece was helpful for me because it helped me see how the elements of a fable can all go together with the feel of a story rather than an outline, but what really helped me was the exercise in class where we constructed our own fables with that format.

What was the most challenging part of the assignment?

The most challenging parts of all these assignments for me has been the choice of language. I like my pieces to show, rather than tell, and it takes me a long time to write them because I keep stopping and rewording almost every sentence. This piece in particular was difficult for me because I couldn’t fit my whole story into 2 or 3 pages. I actually had it written as a bedtime story a mother is telling her children, but with that element it was more than a page longer than it is currently, so I took those out.

Do you feel better prepared to construct your next story after having done this assignment? Why or why not?

I do to a point – this assignment helped me think about the construction of stories and writing an outline for a story much like a paper. That helps me focus the piece and write in a way that leads to the intended outcome.

Machiavelli fable response

The context is set in Belfagor through an explanation of the initial conflict (the question of whether wives were truly the cause of misery), the nomination of a central character who will pursue a solution (the archdevil Belfagor), and a basic plan of action that the character will take (finding a wife for himself and reporting back). I think these three serve as the three standard European context elements. The turning point is Belfagor/Roderigo’s proposal to Gianmatteo: “In reply, Roderigo said: ‘My brother, I am deeply in your debt and want to satisfy you in every way; and so that you may believe what I can do I shall tell you who I am.’” At this point, Roderigo has in a way shifted the role of main character to Gianmatteo, and also switched the plotline. This is done through a few general core actions – Roderigo going broke, running from his wife, and proposing a deal with Gianmatteo. I’m not sure I see one central moral within the story, especially since it’s divided into the two main parts (one about Roderigo, one about Gianmatteo). The overall moral seems to speak about the problems that money can bring, although this is not stated explicitly. The main reversal was Belfagor’s threat to Gianmatteo, placing Gianmatteo in a sort of “jeopardy,” and creating a hurdle for Gianmatteo to overcome. The resolution comes in Gianmatteo’s defeat of Belfagor by scaring him with threats of his wife. What I liked most about the piece was its tone. It was pleasant without being overly simplistic and was an enjoyable read.

My own myth

Hermes drew a deep breath, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow as he stepped onto the elevator of the Olympian Mountain Apartment Complex. ‘Embodiment of extreme mobility and I still don’t take the stairs,’ he thought to himself, shaking his head with a weary grin. There was a time when Hermes’ messenger service primarily served his father Zeus, but with recent advancements in communication, his work days had grown increasingly longer. His social life had especially suffered this past century, ever since the invention of the telephone. As he rose, Hermes mused to himself about the good ol’ days, working for his old man. Sure, Zeus could be a bit of a tyrant sometimes, but even the demands of the king of the gods couldn’t compete with the high-tech thirst of millions of people worldwide.

The lift pushed through the clouds and came to a stop at Hermes’ loft, where he kicked off his winged Birkenstocks and poured a glass of wine before glancing at his furiously blinking answering machine. Each night, Hermes returned to thousands of messages listing customer complaints, from dropped calls to letters that arrived past their past their promised delivery date. Rolling his eyes, the exhausted messenger took a long sip from his glass, mentally thanking his brother Dionysus, and pressed “play.” Surprisingly, it was not an automated recording about a misdelivered package, but his father’s voice that came on the machine.

“Come on up when you get this, son,” Zeus boomed, rattling the little box that still flashed its blinking red alert. “I have a job for you.”

“Does it ever end?” Hermes wondered aloud as he stepped back into the elevator and rode it all the way up. The doors opened to the top floor of Olympian Mountain Apartments, where the king of the gods sat awaiting his son’s arrival. Zeus beckoned to Hermes to take a seat.

“I know you’ve been tired,” he began, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “But it hasn’t been enough. The people’s demand for rapid communication exceeds the present capacity of your services, Hermes. I need you to find something more, something better.”

“But Dad,” the messenger protested, “I’m already working around the clock. What more could they want?”

Zeus sighed, rubbing his temples. “Son, we both know this can only end up a mess. But it is their desire, and we must let them discover this truth on their own.”

Tired and dejected, Hermes returned to his apartment and brewed a pot of extra-strength espresso – he knew he wouldn’t be catching a wink tonight. He labored over his new project all night, and as Helios awoke and the sun rose, Hermes put the final touches on his creation. A worldwide connection of networks, he called it the internet.

The people of the world were overjoyed. Now, an even quicker and more accessible method of communication allowed them to instantly send messages to one another without any form of real human contact. It seemed perfect. As time went on, however, everyone became more and more withdrawn, spending days at a time hovering over their keyboards, typing furiously to the friends that they had once spoken to in person. Outdoor games of pickup basketball became online tournaments with virtual spectators cheering on digital athletes. Communication had rendered the people of the world isolated.

My response:

At first, I was having a lot of trouble deciding what I wanted to write about. I wanted to include something modern that had some sort of meaning to me, or at least that I used frequently. To get ideas, I browsed through the glossary for names of gods or characters that I recognized or could use. I came across Hermes, which gave me the idea to write about the status of present day communication. The metaphor was somewhat challenging – it made the structure of the myth a little different than my original idea because at first, I was only going to write about Hermes inventing the internet, I hadn’t incorporated the message of the detriment of technology. My third person point of view had a more traditional myth feel to it, which I think the reader would find less jarring than a first person point of view when telling a myth. I included dialogue between my characters because it helped me tell the story; without the conversation between Zeus and Hermes, it might have been more difficult to develop the plot and wouldn’t have fit with the tone as well. The most challenging part of this assignment was definitely getting started. I had a lot of trouble creating a story and starting the myth, but once I had the first paragraph, it came much easier.

Reading response: Ovid, Demeter/Persephone

The first thing that I noticed about Ovid’s style of writing was the concrete feeling of his descriptions. Though the language was still very interesting and expressive, it was much less abstract than Calvino’s and didn’t have as much of a metaphorical sense. For example, in Ovid’s description of the story of Lycaon, the phrases he uses describe visually the changes Lycaon underwent in his punishment (“foam dripped from his mouth,” “his robes were shaggy hair,” (967) etc.). Another really prominent difference is that Calvino is mostly describing cities, not individuals, but often personifies the city, giving the description a metaphorical feel. Ovid, in contrast, tells stories about individuals and though they are not necessarily realistic and possible, they still seem more concrete to me. One major similarity between the two texts is the predominance of descriptive language. Even though, as I mentioned, Calvino’s seems more abstract to me, the bulk of both Invisible Cities and Metamorphoses is description, rather than just plotline. Another similarity is the fantastical nature of the texts – Calvino’s depicts imaginary cities full of impossible happenings, while Ovid’s work deals with mythical characters and stories. The relationship between gods and humans in Ovid’s work isn’t always an amicable one. Already on the third page of Metamorphoses the gods declare that “a race must be destroyed, the race of men” (966). Humans often defy the gods and are punished, such as Narcissus who was turned into a flower for his vanity. However there is also often a romantic element between them, such as Apollo and Daphne, and many humans are also respectful of the gods, as shown in Perseus’ sacrifices to Mercury, Pallas and Jove (983). The creation myth in Ovid reminds me very much of the biblical myth of creation. The concept of the world as a mass of shapelessness and from that a division of land, water, etc., occurred is really similar to the seven day creation that is described in Christian beliefs. Ovid’s tone seems to me to be somewhat instructive – the nature of the myths themselves is to tell a story and the way in which Ovid describes the characters and the plot teach a lesson to the reader. I also get this sense from the way that Ovid uses descriptive but not flowery language.

The most apparent difference between the two versions Demeter/Persephone myths is their format – Hawthorne’s piece is prose, while Homer’s is poetry. Because of this, the tone varies between the two pieces. Homer’s is more serious and formal, while Hawthorne’s is more casual and reads more like a piece of folklore. The characters are also portrayed somewhat differently in the two pieces. For example, Persephone seems more youthful and innocent, almost naïve in Hawthorne’s piece. Also, in Homer’s version, female characters are treated somewhat better, given more respect and power.

My own "Invisible Cities"

RAMONA
Theme: reminiscence, nostalgia

In Ramona, no new memories are created. The memories you hold when you enter are what you experience each day, over and over again, sometimes in a different order, but always with the same feeling. Each new person you meet reminds you of another you had met in the past; each sight, smell or sound recalls another moment, a figure or a fragment or glimmer of another time. You will never again think of the young girl who skips past you down the streets of Ramona, and she will never again think of you. Instead, when she sees you, she will be reminded of the grocer in the next town over, the one with the smiling eyes, who slipped her a piece of candy with a wink as her mother gathered their milk and fruit and turned to leave the store.

If you stay in the city long enough you may have the opportunity to experience another’s memories. In Ramona, memory is traded at every solstice. Twice a year, time stops – just for a moment – and at that moment, an exchange of remembrances occurs. All of a sudden, the friendly grocer’s wink becomes as real to you as it was to the little girl as she gratefully clutched her sugary treat. The unfamiliarity of the moment will be refreshing; though the memory is recycled, it is new to you. The exchange works both ways, however. No longer will your memories be your own. Do you recall that afternoon you spent strolling in the country with your sister last year? The two of you commenting on the crimson hue of the fruit you plucked from the tree that offered you a shady spot to rest and enjoy your peanut butter sandwiches, the ones on wheat bread, crusts sliced off, do you remember that? Of course not. That afternoon is now a fond memory held by the elderly man sitting in his rocker a block away, chuckling as he thinks of the lovely picnic he and his sibling once shared under a cherry tree.

FELICITY
Theme: chasing the unattainable

The city of Felicity is arranged unlike any other. Instead of a standard cluster of neighborhoods, Felicity is shaped like a wavy line, with only one road in the whole city. Main Street, as the inhabitants fittingly call it, is a winding, skinny pathway lined with houses. Walking along the main drag, I wouldn’t have guessed immediately that this town was different than any other. The homes were warmly welcoming, with well-kept lawns and modest exteriors. Children rode brightly colored bikes past me as I strolled, while a dog barked from a healthy green yard where a young woman tended to her vegetable garden, pulling weeds as she wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. Felicity’s sole distinguishing characteristic was her lack of cross streets, a characteristic which itself became unnoticeable after a bit of walking.

I entered Felicity with the intention to only pass through. Though my map was mysteriously torn at the opposite end of Main Street, I had heard that the neighboring city was just beyond the town square, around the last bend in the road. At first I felt I was making good progress through the town; with my long flamingo legs I took lengthy strides. However, it seemed strange to me that at my pace I hadn’t yet reached the town square. Around the next bend, I came across a man peering into his mailbox, hunched over as he rooted through the bills and flyers that spilled out through his fingers. I tapped his shoulder and he turned to me with a friendly smile. When I asked how far it was until I came across town square, he stared back at me, confused for a moment, before he chuckled with realization and shook his head.

“So she’s got you now too,” he replied, and when my only response was a look of pure confusion, he continued, “Felicity, she’s got you now too. You see, there is no town square, there is no city at the end of Main Street. In fact, there is no end of Main Street at all. Once you enter this city, you’re where you’re supposed to be.”

I began to protest, but the man stopped me.

“Don’t you want to be happy?” he asked, to which I answered, “Of course.”

“And is this city not a happy place?”

I couldn’t argue – I had not seen a frown or tear in all my time spent walking.

“Then why would you leave? Everyone chases happiness when they have it at their fingertips, they just do not see it. Happiness is the name for a city in the distance, and if you approach it, it changes. No one ever wants what they could have so easily. But don’t you see? This town is happiness, it’s even in her name.”

‘Felicity,’ I thought to myself. ‘Of course. After all, there is no language without deceit.’

CLAREVOYA
Theme: accepting what you have

In Clarevoya, it is a complete normalcy for one to have six senses. Each inhabitant possesses the standard five: sight, sound, smell, touch and taste. The sixth sense varies however, and is passed down generation through generation, much like blonde hair, or freckles, or a pointed nose.

Some Clarevoyans have the ability to visually sense the emotions around them, however hidden by expression or body language. In their eyes, happiness shoots off of the body like neon rays of light, bouncing off of walls and windows and brightening each object in their path. Gloom appears as a fog, dark and malleable and thick, coating those who feel it and sweeping over anyone near to them. Anger’s form is that of a smoky red gel, sweeping over irate citizens and shrouding them in a cloud of soot and grease.

Other Clarevoyans are able to hear thoughts, and carry on silent conversations with each other, never saying a word that is audible to those who do not possess the sense. Other Clarevoyans tend to avoid their presence, feeling vulnerable and violated by the lack of privacy in their own mind. What they don’t realize (and no one tells them) is that the thought-hearers have an exceptional sense of “regular” hearing as well – anything that is said aloud within the city limits is perfectly discernible to them anyway.

There is one man in Clarevoya with only five senses. At some point in his childhood, it became apparent that he did not possess either his father’s skill of foretelling weather patterns, or his mother’s ability to maneuver perfectly in completely dark areas. Cards and flowers were delivered to their household, sending condolences and mourning this child’s misfortune. In his youth, the boy felt he had been cheated, that he was an unlucky pariah without any special advantage. As he grew older though, he watched his father grow agitated in the days before a particularly harsh storm and he glimpsed the wistful sigh of a thought-hearer who knew she was once again avoided for her ability but that her cerulean hue of sadness was apparent to many Clarevoyans around her. Upon reaching adulthood, the man came to a realization of the blessing hidden beneath his curse – his sixth sense in fact was peace.

APERFICO

Imagine a place that is the epitome of perfection, and that place is Aperfico. A city of absolute bliss, there is never a tear shed in Aperfico, nor is a harsh word ever uttered. Every child is born without an ounce of pain felt by its mother and infants emerge smiling and giggling, not a scream to be heard. All marriages are healthy and happy, and the word “divorce” is an absolutely foreign idea. No one ever feels hunger or sadness, nor do they truly understand the meaning of these concepts.

One day, the city of Aperfico was invaded and left devastated by a group of pillaging travelers. Most houses were left at the mercy of a torch and turned to ashes, destroying all the provisions and possessions left inside and killing many of the city’s residents. With this invasion, the essence of perfection that existed in Aperfico was also destroyed. At once, the citizens felt desperate hunger, emotional agony over their lost companions and belongings, and physical pain from the injuries inflicted by their attackers. It seemed as if true happiness would never be found again.

Eventually the invading vagabonds moved through Aperfico and away from the city’s walls, leaving behind them a site of complete desolation. Without any practice in handling misfortune, the city’s inhabitants had no idea how to react or overcome such a tragedy. The town stayed in a state of chaos until a young girl emerged from a partially sunken ruin of a home and extended her chubby, dirt-caked hand to a woman who sat sobbing on the street outside. In the child’s palm was a half-eaten red apple, dull from the light film of dust that covered its skin. Though it was far from Aperfico’s standard of perfection, the woman thankfully grabbed the apple and devoured it hungrily. At that moment, she realized that nothing she had ever eaten had tasted as delicious and rewarding as the filthy fruit she had just gulped down. It was the first time she had actually felt satisfaction – a sense of gratification stemming from the fulfillment of some absence. And it occurred to her that Aperfico had never been perfect in the first place – nothing in the world she had known could ever compare to her realization of the true perfection that comes from rising from adversity.

Questions:

- The theme that was easiest for me to write about was “reminiscence,” partially because it was my first city that I wrote about, but also because I felt the theme connected to so many thoughts and feelings I’ve experienced lately, especially being in a new, foreign place. I have with me my memories from back home and I’m adding to them so many new memories in a completely new environment.

- I thought each way of writing was harder and easier in its own way. A theme was a good building block from which I could jumpstart my idea, but often I’d find myself straying from the idea and either changing my theme or having to rewrite a section. Writing without a theme was also difficult however, because I didn’t have a specific thread to tie back into until my story was fully developed.

- The most difficult part for me was thinking of different cities. Once I had one, I kept thinking of similar concepts and it was hard for me to branch out and dream up a new one.

- I enjoyed Calvino’s use of language, particularly his descriptive phrases. I love descriptive writing and most of the quotes I picked from his cities were descriptive phrases with interesting and vivid word choice. These were the things I tried to emulate in my own cities.

- As I said, I tried to emulate/borrow a certain element of Calvino’s style, his word choice and descriptive choices, because I felt that they created such vivid mental imagery that really add substance to a written piece.

- I personally took “Invisible Cities” to be a piece of work all pertaining to one city, each story elaborating one of the city’s many complexities. Rome is definitely a very complex city. It combines so many aspects of modernity and antiquity and this adds a really interesting element to the city. In this way, I think Rome is definitely an “Invisible City” as Calvino might describe it.

- I would have chosen “complexity” or “contrast” if I had written about Rome as a whole. Like I said before, Rome has so many conflicting, complex elements and that is what makes it such an interesting remarkable city.

Italo Calvino's "Invisible Cities" Assignment One

City: “Quote from passage” – My own theme

Diomira: “and who think they were happy, that time.” – Reminiscence, nostalgia

Isidora: “Desires are already memories.” – Loss of time

Dorothea: “bergamot, sturgeon roe, astrolabes, amethysts” – Plentiful, advantage

Kublai: “does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand” – Calculation

Anastasia: “concentric canals watering it and kites flying over it” – deception, desires not always what they seem

Tamara: “a print in the sand indicates a tiger’s passage; a marsh announces a vein of water” – association, cause/effect

Zora: “a honeycomb in whose cells each of us can place the things he wants to remember” – predictability, routine

Despina: “a camel from whose pack hang wineskins and bags of candied fruit” – multifaceted, complexity, perspective

Zirma: “lunatic teetering on a skyscraper’s cornice” – discordance, discontentment

Isaura: “the rock’s calcareous sky” – dependence, sustenance

Maurilia: “the same identical square with a hen in the place of the bus station” – advancement, changes

Fedora: “what had been until yesterday a possible future became only a toy in a glass globe” – possibility, opportunity

Zoe: “the pine cone of pagodas” – equality, uniformity

Zenobia: “a-flutter with banners and ribbons” – uniqueness, adjustment, getting used to what you have

Euphemia: “memory is traded at every solstice and at every equinox” – association, passing on of one’s knowledge

Zobeide – “this ugly city, this trap” – labyrinth, chasing the unfindable

Hypatia – “There is no language without deceit” – misconception, outside the box thinking

Armilla – “Whether Armilla is like this because it is unfinished or because it has been demolished…I do not know” – essentials, water as the basis of life

Chloe – “a blind man with a cheetah on a leash” – forbidden contact/interaction

Valdrada – “copulating or murdering of the images, limpid and cold in the mirror” – imitation

Olivia – “shrouded in a cloud of soot and grease that sticks to the houses” – conflict, bustling contradiction

Sophronia – “before the caravan returns and a complete life can begin again” – complementary aspects

Eutropia – “Mercury, god of the fickle…worked this ambiguous miracle” – rotation

Zemrude – “finding again each morning the ill-humor of the day before, encrusted at the foot of the walls” – mindset, attitude

Aglaura – “punctilious regard for rules” – image, concepts

Octavia – “hempen strands” – unsteady, accepting of fate

Ersilia – “spider-webs of intricate relationships seeking a form” – intertwinings

Baucis – “long flamingo legs” – curious (in more than one way - both odd and seeking knowledge)

Leandra – “huffing, bantering, amid ironic, stifled laughter” – growth, change

Melania – “miserly father” – metamorphosis, evolution

Esmerelda – “The most fixed and calm lives in Esmerelda are spent without any repetition” – intricacy

Phyllis – “Millions of eyes look up at windows, bridges, capers” – remnants, remains

Pyrrha – “a figure or a fragment or glimmer” – discovery

Adelma – “This means the beyond is not happy” – existence

Moriana – “coral columns supporting pediments encrusted with serpentine” – conflict/contrast

Clarice – “tormented history” – changing, evolving, shifting

Eusapia – “sheathed in yellow skin” – reversal

Beersheba – “dark and malleable and thick” – misconception, comparison

Leonia – “The fact is that street cleaners are welcomed like angels, and their task…is surrounded by a respectful silence, like a ritual that inspires devotion” – wastefulness

Irene – “name for a city in the distance, and if you approach it, it changes” – question of existence

Argia – “on every star another stairway is set in negative” – suffocation, entrapment

Thekla – “The sky is filled with stars. ‘There is the blueprint,’ they say.” – reaching the unattainable

Trude – “Why come to Trude? I asked myself. And already I wanted to leave” – déjà vu, inescapable surroundings

Olinda – “flow of lymph” – continual change

Laudomia - “The streets of the Laudomia of the dead are just wide enough to allow the gravedigger’s cart to pass” – fear of unknown, reincarnation, death

Perinthia – “the order of the gods is reflected exactly in the city of monsters” – uncertainty of religion and faith

Procopia – “to shift my feet I have to disturb those crouching on the floor” – expansion, growth

Raissa – “the windows resound with quarrels and broken dishes” – finding positivity in unhappiness

Andria – “‘any change in Andria involves some novelty among the stars’” – connection between nature and civilization

Cecilia – “‘My goats recognize the grass on the traffic island’” – perspective, point of view

Marozia – “batlike overcoats” – sense of dualism within the city

Penthesilea – “like a lake with low shores lost in swamps” – confusion, direction

Theodora – “When the sky was cleared of condors, they had to face the propagation of serpents” – resilience of dirt and filth

Berenice – “especially their pronunciation of commas and parentheses” – intrinsic unfairness of life

Who is the narrator in Calvino’s work? The narrator in Calvino’s piece is Venetian explorer, Marco Polo, who is telling stories of the cities to emperor Kublai Khan.

What historical significance does this have and why would a contemporary author make such a choice? I felt that having Marco Polo as the narrator but also mentioning modern things such as skyscrapers, traffic islands, etc., displays the evolution of the cities and I felt that the era in which each city existed varied throughout the novel.

What person/point of view does the author choose to tell his tales from? The narrator mostly tells the stories from a first person point of view, sometimes using the word “I” and sometimes just telling it from an assumed first person perspective.

Does this change? This doesn’t necessarily change, but sometimes seems as if it does. For example, the first city does not mention Marco specifically, only “the man who arrives there on a September evening,” which could possibly be a third person narrator referring to Marco Polo, or simply Polo himself speaking of another man.

Why do you think this is? I found that there were several instances where points of view and perspectives were themes within cities, and I think this variance in point of view of the narration ties into that.