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A Writer's Life in Rome & Tuscia

Pasolini's Tower

Pasolini's Tower
Along a busy stretch of highway north of Rome, near the town of Viterbo, a solitary tower thrusts up among the trees overlooking a deep gorge. This 13th century tower, known as the tower of Chia, was once the writing studio of Pier Paolo Pasolini, novelist, poet, and film-maker. Purchased by Pasolini in 1970, the tower served as a retreat for the writer and his entourage until his death in 1975. He would come here to recharge, interrupting his intense work schedule in Rome, and spend a few days relaxing in one of the wilder areas of Italy, known as “the Tuscia,” once the heart of Etruscan territory.

Pasolini discovered the ruined tower in 1964, while filming The Gospel According to Saint Matthew, several scenes of which were shot in the surrounding area. Six years passed in bureaucratic red tape before he was allowed to buy this historical building and have it restored. The tower was not remodeled to make a modern living space — he merely reinforced its structure, and had a small two- room studio built at the base, with huge windows facing out on the gorge. To Pasolini, who had traveled widely, the landscape was breathtaking. It was here he sought inspiration while working on his last, unfinished novel, Petrolio. It was here, friends say, that he desired to be buried.

Although the tower is usually inaccessible to visitors — with a huge iron gate blocking the entrance, it is still a place of pilgrimage for Pasolini’s many admirers. After parking outside an improvised garbage dump for building materials, I follow a well- beaten track leading through the woods to the tower. Boars must frequent the trail at night — the soft mud is covered with hoof tracks . Crows squawk in the naked branches overhead, while cars zip by on the superstrada. Although visitors cannot enter the gate, I walk around the walls but decide not to hike down the steep trail through the gorge to the stream below, immortalized in Pasolini’s film as the River Jordan.

There is a peculiarly Pasolinian flavor to it all — the stern, archaic tower, sheep grazing nearby, the superstrada with its gas station in view, the only signs of the encroaching urbanization Pasolini deplored. Pasolini’s work explores the social problems created by the industrialization of a society rooted in a rural, agrarian culture and his views have even greater relevancy today in this era of globalization. Pasolini had deep respect for Italy’s peasant origins and for the medieval traditions springing from those origins. Here in the people and the landscape of the Tuscia he found that rough peasant vitality still intact.

Nov. 2021. Years have passed since I wrote the above blog. The countryside surrounding Pasolini’s tower hasn’t changed much in these years. The fenced off dump has expanded, and for a time—incongruously-- hosted an ostrich farm. You’d see the huge birds picking about piles of rubble as you drove past on the superhighway. It was a lonely place of ghosts and decay, visited rarely by hikers or porcini hunters. The solitary tower and its mysterious, darkly enchanted setting served the model for Federigo del Re’s tower in my novel The Etruscan which celebrates the eerie, archaic atmospheres and ruins of Tuscia. A decade ago or so, not far from the tower, a murder suicide took place, when a jealous husband shot his wife, then himself in a car parked near the entrance.

Pasolini relished the rough-edged, rowdy mentality of the medieval period, with its strong passions, irrepressible instincts, violence, and wonder. But his later work is also pervaded by a grim pessimism. The tower was his refuge, from which he surveyed the crumbling fabric of our culture, devastated by the bourgeois consumerism eating away at traditions, language, vitality. One wonders what he might have made of the covid-19 crisis, the catastrophic deaths in India, a country that he loved. I imagine him gazing down upon the apocalypse with the dark, fiery gaze of a Savonarola.

For decades after Pasolini’s death, the tower was occasionally used as a small conference venue and library, but the heirs put it up for sale in 2020. Both the Regional government of Lazio and the town government of Soriano del Cimino – to which the area belongs –considered purchasing it, but the 800,000 euro price discouraged them. The tower is now in private hands, and in September 2021 was finally opened to visitors. For information, contact ufficioturistico@comune.sorianonelcimino.vt.it
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The Ulysses Trial - Margaret Anderson & Jane Heap 101 Years Ago Today

Jane Heap & Margaret Anderson, Editors of the Little Review, stood trial on obscenity charges for publishing chapters of Ulysses in their literary magazine.
From "Jane Heap & Her Circle" Late one morning in February, 1921, two women followed an Irish police officer through the corridors of the Jefferson Market Police Court in Greenwich Village. The men bustling about the offices lifted their heads to observe these two unlikely criminals on their way to be fingerprinted. One was a lady of high fashion, wearing a tailored blue suit and a cloche hat, a string of pearls looped upon her satin blouse, and a pale silk rose pinned to her lapel. She walked with self-confidence and poise, as if striding across a stage to take a last bow. Indeed, she was a gifted pianist accustomed to smiling down upon admiring audiences, but today her face was a mask of disdain: arched eyebrows finely tweezed, nose discreetly powdered, dark red lips. Her right hand was gloved, the left bare. Behind her walked a short squarish woman with close-cropped hair, sporting a man’s jacket over a broad black skirt, a black bow tie, and deep scarlet lipstick.

Led to a desk where another policeman awaited, the chic lady in blue baulked at the ink into which she was invited to dip her fingers. All morning, on her lawyer’s instructions, she had sat docilely through her trial, but now lighting a cigarette in her ungloved hand, she announced that she could not possibly comply unless they assured her no irremediable damage would be done to her person or her manicure. Her requests for fresh towels, scented soap, and a clean nailbrush sent the officers scurrying obediently.

Her companion observed this farce with restrained amusement. Her own hands, calloused and muscular, the nails rimmed with printers’ ink and oil paint, were certainly no stranger to stains, and managed carpentry tools or embroidery needles with equal skill. Perhaps she even sympathized with the men flustering about her friend, whose jasmine eau-de-cologne added a piquant note in the warm room above the smell of stale tobacco and perspiration.

Beauty has power, as she knew, for she herself was subject to its sway, but so do good breeding and the look of money which her elegant companion radiated in any circumstance. Surely no one could have guessed that the cash in their possession amounted to less than five dollars. Indeed they had no idea where to scrape up the $100 to pay the fine they had been charged for distributing pornography through the US mails.

After they had duly deposited the prints, they were escorted to the exit. The man whose charges led to their conviction in court tipped his hat as they passed. John Sumner, head of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, had never met such original ladies before. It was a pity they had let themselves become entangled in this dirty business. These criminals were Margaret Anderson and Jane Heap, the editors of the Little Review, and the pornography they had purveyed through US mail consisted in copies of their magazine in which excerpts from James Joyce’s Ulysses had been printed— the first chapters of Joyce’s masterpiece to be published in America. The bone of contention that morning in court had been the Nausicaa chapter. Sumner, speaking on behalf of the good citizens of New York, feared this text might corrupt the minds of young girls, and wanted all publication stopped.
Anderson was disappointed they had not ended up in jail, from where she might have circulated some useful propaganda for Ulysses, which despite their ardent promotion in America had not yet received critical acclaim. She blamed her own innate refinement for the missed opportunity. During the trial, one of the judges remarked that it was obvious merely by looking at her that she could have no idea what the words she had published actually meant.... The whole essay may be downloaded from the home page of this website Jane Heap & Her Circle complete essay
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Book Review of The Hands on French Cookbook by Elisabeth de Chatillon

In connection with France Book Tours.

Longing for France, French food and the French language but can’t travel yet? Wanting to brush up your French for an upcoming trip, but find situational language learning courses (i.e. dialogues in contexts) boring and contrived? This book: HANDS ON FRENCH COOKBOOK: Connect with French through Simple, Healthy Cooking by Elisabeth de Chatillon is for you.

This bilingual cookbook offers a hands-on approach to French food, teaching you not only how to cook signature dishes of French home cooking but how to cook in French, providing the essential vocabulary and idioms along with recipes and culinary secrets in French and English.

The author is not only a native Frenchwoman and accomplished cook, but also a French language teacher trained in TPR – total physical response, a language learning method that relies heavily on the coordination of the body and the mind.

According to this intriguing methodology, language learning is not just a mental exercise of the right brain. The whole body is involved in storing language memory, associating phonemes and words with movement and physical sensation. This coordinated activity of right/left brains and body is actually how we learn our first language from our parents, postulates Dr. James Asher, who first developed the method which has become very popular with ESL and EFL teachers working with young children. Elisabeth de Chatillon has tailored this method for her adult French language students focusing on the domain of the kitchen and the practical tasks of cooking.

The recipes she has chosen as the focus of language -cooking are classics of true French cuisine reflecting the seasonality that makes French food so delectable, but adapted to healthier dietary regime – for example her crustless courgette quiche, buckwheat crepes with salmon, or lentil salad with goat cheese. Her “chef notes “ (in French) discuss the origin of the dishes, the history of specific ingredients, and possible adaptations or substitutions. Some of the recipes may be adapted to vegan, vegetarian, lactose-free, or gluten-free diets, so there is something for everyone.

A perfect book for anyone who’d like to recreate the flavors of France in their own kitchen, while improving their language skills. FRANCE BOOK TOURS has organized a giveaway for US residents only

Buy It Here: Our Bookshop

Amazon / Barnes & Noble

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A Paris Memory, Reading at Shakespeare & Co. and David Applefield

In 2006 and 2008, I had the pleasure of reading from my novels at the legendary Paris bookshop, Shakespeare & Co.  thanks partly to the late David Applefield, Paris writer and editor whose scintillating literary mag, FRANK, was once published in connection with the bookstore, and included works by Raymond Carver and Mavis Gallant. David, who had been encouraged by Lawrence Durrell to found his own publishing company, was one of my writing mentors and a constant source of inspiration,  as he always had some new cultural  project on the stove. In the nineties, at the age of 39, he was profiled in the NYTs, who praised his unique combination of a "heart for poetry and head for business."
David was about to leave Paris when we last met in January 2019, on his way back to NJ to run for Congress. But his dreams to reconnect culture and politics were not to be. He died unexpectedly in the spring of 2020.  My memories of Paris are bound up with our quick visits and long chats over lunch in a tiny, dimly lit Tunisian restaurant near his home in the suburbs, or coffee near the Sorbonne.
The following blog was written in 2006, while I was in Paris for my first reading @ Shakespeare & Co, which took place in the library upstairs.




Just across the bridge from Notre Dame on Rue de la Bucherie,  Shakespeare and Company,  bookstore, library, shrine, and  make-shift hotel, welcomes readers, writers, and drifters. Officially recognized by the City of Paris as part of its cultural heritage,  the shop was  founded in 1951  by George Whitman  and is now owned and operated by Sylvia Whitman, daughter of  this amazing gentleman who was born in 1912.  Named in honor of  the  bookstore founded in the 20s by Sylvia Beach  in Rue de l'Odeon, which first promoted the works of James Joyce  and Ezra Pound, Whitman's   bookshop and "reading room"  was a gathering place for the  expatriate writers  who streamed into Paris in the post-war  period.   Shakespeare & Company still offers hospitality to writers  and students  who are allowed to stretch out their sleeping bags  after closing time and to read their works to the public on Monday nights.  George Whitman,  sharp, spry and frail, invites me to stay the night as a Tumbleweed, but unaware of this option, I have made other plans. (Later I will regret missing this opportunity.)
Shakespeare and Company is open from noon till midnight, and the setting up of the store for a day of business is a ritual to behold.  Shortly before noon, a small crowd gathers on the pavement, huddled in the cold,  waiting for permission to enter this temple of the English language.  Lodged in  what was once  part of a 16th century  monastery, with a faded  portrait of the Old Bard above the green- shuttered windows – the place looks more like an old English pub until the great shutters are folded back   to reveal book-crammed windows – with first editions of Anais Nin and  Lawrence Ferlinghetti displayed in front.  The bustling staff scurries about,  dragging  boxes of second-hand books out to the street,  filling up empty shelves outside the shop. They remind me of stagehands preparing for a performance.
Returning later in the evening for the reading, I am ushered up a cracked and narrow wooden staircase to the upstairs rooms.    The low ceiling beams are pockmarked with woodworms, charred  by the fire which devastated the place in 91. Everywhere there are musty  books packed onto sagging shelves and yellowing photographs of Whitman with his close friend, Lawrence Ferlinghetti.  Yet this is no museum, but a living library  with people, young and old,  sitting on benches or even on the worn arabesque rugs, browsing through volumes not for sale, but feely accessible to anyone who would like to consult them. It is, as Henry Miller said, "a wonderland of books."

Headlights of cars along  Quai de Montebello  flash by in the night  but inside  this sanctuary, people sit ,quiet and attentive, waiting for the reading to begin.   To read here is to take a place in a chain, to participate in a tradition.  The emphasis is not on selling books  but creating an exchange.  The atmosphere is layered with the palpable presence of writers,  famous or obscure,  who have read or spoken here,  of  audiences who have gathered to listen over an arc of fifty years.  --2006


2020 POSTSCRIPT: Like many bookstores around the world, Shakespeare and Co. has been hit hard by Covid and lockdown, with an 80% drop in sales. To face the uncertain future, they have founded an association to help support the bookshop through members' donations. Please see their site and consider a small donation. https://friendsofshakespeareandcompany.com

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Islands are for Writers

There are people who find islands irresistible -- Lawrence Durrell

There are people “who find islands somehow irresistible. The mere knowledge that they are on an island, a little world surrounded by the sea, fills them with an indescribable intoxication.” -- Lawrence Durrell

Greece is our ancestral home– we were born to its sun, sea, and islands – to its penchant for speculation, exploration, philosophy, and myth – its relentless searching for the essence of things, and its celebration of the mind, body, and senses. The great Greek myths probe the depths of our psyche to reveal the conflicts and energies that fuel our lives. Greece is a storied territory. As Sir Patrick Leigh Fermor once claimed, you cannot walk across its terrain without tripping over some sacred spot drenched in history or myth. Each of its six thousand islands is a world unto itself.

Places inhabit us just as we inhabit them. They have personality, emotions, agency, and transformative powers. This is particularly true of Greece and its islands.

Islomania was the underlying theme of a recent writing workshop I taught at the Aegean Arts Circle Workshops on the island of Andros.

During our sessions, we explored islands and their meaning. Geographical islands and psychological ones. Islands as setting, protagonist, myth, and metaphor. The enormous gap between the popular image of islands as places of pleasure, escape, the natural life, and utopia and the bleaker,cruder reality they often are. We explored “islomania” and insularity and what these things have meant in our lives and work. In addition to working with The Soul of Place – A Creative Writing Workbook, we elaborated several exercises with island themes to use during the workshop.
1.Write about water as a medium, an element, as distance, emotion, music, or as part of your body.
2. Write about an island in your life, interpreting “island” from any point of view desired.
3. Connect the islands in your life in a personal essay.
4.Write about collecting islands or a collector of islands.
5. Make a deep map of the islands in your life or of your ideal island.
6. Write about an island creature, from any domain – including imaginary, mythological,or culinary! Or write about a (sea) food as a form of alien life.
7. Write about a culinary experience as a rite of passage. (See MFK Fisher on the oyster).
8. Write about a house or room from which you are(or the main occupant is) absent.
9. Write about an object that transports you to another time or place.
10. Open the door to a place you once loved, but haven’t been for awhile…
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Books and Travel, A Review

Books and Travel

One day, when I was about ten years old, my parents brought back a children’s book in French from the Kingsport Public Library. This thin red book, whose title I cannot remember, told the story of two children about to set sail from New York to France on an ocean liner. In the first chapter, they packed up their things into a steamer trunk. Successive chapters dealt with boarding the ship, departure, misadventures on board, and finally arrival in port followed by a Parisian escapade with croissants. Throughout the voyage, the children wore blue-and-white-striped French sailor shirts and although they were American, spoke French.
Of the hundreds of library books for children transiting our home, this one has stuck in my mind for more than fifty years. It galvanized my play sessions: for months afterwards, I enacted scenes from the book and the most exciting part was the preparation for the voyage. There was an old steamer trunk in the spare bedroom in our house. Emblazoned with the initials of my mother’s maiden name, smelling of mothballs, it was crammed full of memorabilia–faded photographs of her Polish relatives from before the war, a Mexican tooled-leather handbag wrapped in plastic, purchased on her honeymoon. These items too held a trace of the exotic, of other places and times. I picked the lock with a hairpin, unpacked the contents, and used this trunk as the main prop in my playacting. I would spend hours happily filling it with my clothes, shoes, books, dolls, pretending I was about to leave on a long sea voyage to Europe, with Paris as my final destination
Fifty years later, I find myself a confirmed Francophile, living in Europe, speaking another language than the one I was born to, and a passionate fan of sea journeys. That little book which had come into my life quite by chance shaped my conception of travel and aroused in me an implacable desire for visiting foreign places, influencing my entire existence.
The power of books to transport us elsewhere, inspiring us to travel and framing our experience of place, is the topic of an intriguing, multidisciplinary study by two Australian academics from La Trobe University, Warwick Frost and Jennifer Laing, entitled Books and Travel This broad study investigates the nuanced ways that reading and day dreaming about places stimulate our imagination and construct our idea of travel. The English travel writer Vernon Lee, friend to Henry James, would have heartily agreed. She once wrote:
“For the passion for localities, the curious emotions connected with the lie of the land, shape of buildings, history and quality of air and soil, are born, like all intense and permeating feeling, less of outside things than our own soul… The places for which we feel such love are fashioned before we see them by our wishes and fancy; we recognize rather than discover them in the world of reality.”
The relationship between literature and travel, the tourist’s gaze, the history of literary tourism, travel as self-actualization and liminal experience, literary/ heritage tourism and territorial branding are among the many subtopics discussed in this fascinating study which draws on theoretical perspectives from many fields.
The authors offer a detailed analysis of diverse tropes and plot structures underpinning much travel literature (quest, adventure, pilgrimage, hidden worlds, time travel, escape, transformation) applied to dozens of classic and popular works of fiction and nonfiction for which short synopses are given. Although all media — photography, film, television, social media, computer games — may contribute to constructing our sense of a given place, it is the more immersive and intimate act of reading that lets us lose ourselves completely in an imagined place, recreating characters, stories and settings in our minds through a deep, solitary process of identification, often predisposing us towards a transformative conception of travel.
The process starts early. The authors argue “that the genesis of adult travel behavior can be traced in part to the books we read as children, and their influence is profound and long-lasting.” Many classics of travel literature both for children and adults have strong mythic or archetypal structural elements related to the hero’s journey. “Far from being lightweight fare, these books…start us on an imaginative pathway where travel is mysterious, magical, and often life changing,” they write.
This book is a must-read for anyone involved tourism studies as it provides a brief but perceptive analysis of the diverse motivations and aspirations that compel us to travel and an illuminating glimpse at how literary – cultural heritage tourism attempts to satisfy, exploit, and sometimes deny those aspirations and desires. I also highly recommend this book to all writers whose work, fiction or nonfiction, deals with travel and place. Frost and Laing’s discussion of transformative travel and the tropes associated with texts of this type provides rich insights into the magic and craft of story-making and into the psychological rewards readers hope to find in an absorbing book.
BOOKS AND TRAVEL will inspire you to reread many old classics and revisit your own personal mythology of travel and imagination, to decide for yourself if travel has been a transformative experience in your own life and to understand the factors which have shaped your sense of elsewhere.
If books you read in childhood have influenced your experience of travel, please leave a comment below and tell us how.
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The Tarot Garden of Niki de Saint Phalle


As you drive along the Via Aurelia towards the sea, near the turn off for Capalbio, a flash of psychedelic color catches your eye, emerging from the silvery blur of olive groves and ilex trees on the scrubby, Maremma hillside. Prominently displayed are the tip of a red rocket aimed at the sky, a decapitated tower with a bicycle wreck at the top, and a huge, blue laughing clown face with a waggling hand growing straight up out of its head. Other gaudy figures peep out from beneath the tree tops, resembling the rides of some crazy carnival that has just pulled into town, but instead this phantasmagoria happens to be one of the twentieth century’s greatest landscape artworks, the Tarot Garden created by the French-American artist Niki de Saint Phalle (1930 -2002). For Saint Phalle, this garden was a corner of paradise achieved through an inner itinerary of sacrifice and spiritual growth.
The giant figures, some of which are inhabitable buildings, represent the 22 Major Arcana of the Tarot, refashioned according to Saint Phalle’s understanding and experience of them over the arc of a lifetime. The tarot is not just a card game, Niki claims, but conceals a philosophy of life. Key cards for her are the Hanged Man, Strength, the Magus, the Sun, the Empress ( manifested in the garden as a sphinx whose breasts are rooms you can live in – where indeed Niki did live while working on the garden), and the Angel of Temperance, who became her spiritual guide.
Entering the austere enclosure of tufa walls that form a barrier to the outside world, you step into a dream, inspired not only by the Tarot, but by fairy tales and the art works of Matisse, Miro, and Picasso. The figures are covered with mosaic tiles, mirrors, and ceramics in lollipop colors, arranged in kaleidoscope patterns, bedazzling and bewitching, changing by the minute in sun and shadow.
The spark for creating this garden came when Niki visited Gaudi’s Guell Parc in Barcelona in 1955, an experience so overwhelming that it made her tremble with a sense of destiny. “ I knew someday I would make my own Garden of Joy,” she wrote. She dreamed of her garden for years, seeking the right spot, which she thought might be Africa or South America, a place that would contrast starkly to the urbanization of contemporary life. By chance or fate, the chosen spot turned out to be a former quarry in the Tuscan Maremma, on land belonging to the brothers of a friend.
There could have been no better place than here in Maremma, just over the border from the province of Viterbo where several of Italy’s greatest esoteric gardens are located : Villa Lante, the Sacred Grove (aka the Park of Monsters) of Bomarzo, the gardens of Villa Farnese in Caprarola. By placing her garden here, Saint Phalle had connected up with the local tradition of landscape narratives and healing gardens. In the mannerist tradition of the sixteenth century, those gardens were to be “read” with the heart and mind as much as they were to be enjoyed by the senses. The placement of fountains, trees, and sculptures obeyed a narrative strategy that might reveal a secret doctrine, heal an illness, enhance political power, point out the route to spiritual enlightenment, or simply alter fate. Such gardens were magic books hewn in stone, in which the visitor, while wandering about, became the actant or performer of an ever-changing story, a necessary element in the garden’s magic.
As you explore the Tarot Garden, you will note allusions to Bomarzo. For example, the Empress who greets you with melting, blue mosaic stairs flowing from her open mouth, -- vividly evokes the Hell Mouth, the signature sculpture of Bomarzo. Unlike the Bomarzo cavern carved of dark tufa with its unsettling tomblike atmosphere, this is a gushing fountain of life. The glassy green dragon guarded by a maiden, representing the arcanum Strength, resembles the dragon of Bomarzo. But here the atmosphere is playful and joyous, the beast is kept in check and does not threaten us. By contrast, the Sacred Grove of Bomarzo seems steeped in a twilight gloom, yet it too was meant as a healing itinerary for its original creator, Pier Francesco Orsini, suffering from deep depression after his wife’s death.
Niki de Saint Phalle financed and built her Tarot Garden, costing millions of dollars, mainly by herself, although she was helped by fellow artists, workmen, friends, local people, lovers, admirers, and enthusiasts. Along the way, she encountered many obstacles, including illness. Severe rheumatoid arthritis disabled her from working for long periods. She also struggled with the fervent opposition of local residents who objected her project, which, it turned out, had been undertaken without first receiving official building permits from the town government. In the end, a white knight appeared as in all fairy tales to rescue what is good and true: Mitterand saved the garden from Italian bureaucratic censure – and possibly from being torn down -- by declaring it a national monument of France, and therefore not subject to the Italian building code.
Paths seem random through the Garden, and, at Niki’s request, there are no guided tours. The point of this garden is to discover it yourself, and while doing so, discover yourself. There are however two main routes to explore – one departing from the Sun, takes you up a wide, easy, well-paved path. The other is harder to find. You must climb over the dragon’s tail, then follow a narrow, slippery trail. From here you encounter more directly the Moon, the Devil, and Death, with whom the artist had to come to terms. Hardship, love, enthusiasm, obsession went into making this garden, writes Niki, but above all, faith. “Nothing and no one could have stopped me.”
This garden engenders joy and delight in children and adults, and teases our thoughts as to its meaning. But upon exiting her magic world, you will also feel a deep gratitude to the artist for never giving up until the garden was done, and for her generosity in sharing her vision.

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Here is a list of favorite books for a summer read, at the beach, or under a shady tree in a piazza, or sitting @ your favorite taverna watching fishermen return from the island... Highly recommended fiction and nonfiction with a Mediterranean setting

Domini, John, A Tomb on the Periphery Mystery and Suspense §
Durrell, Lawrence The Alexandrian Quartet postmodern classic of literary fiction
Forster E.M., Where Angels Fear to Tread modernist classic literary fiction
Forster E.M. A Room with a View modernist literary fiction
Hazzard, Shirley The Bay of Noon literary fiction
Hazzard, Shirley, The Evening of the Holiday literary fiction, romantic
Hellenga, Robert The Sixteen Pleasures § contemporary literary fiction
Jess, Walter Beautiful Ruins contemporary fiction
Lappin, Linda The Etruscan § mystery and suspense, literary fiction, gothic
Lappin, Linda Signatures in Stone § mystery and suspense, gothic
Leyland, Joanna The Goddess Trilogy fantasy –thriller with irony
MacDonald, Elizabeth House of Cards : literary fiction- short stories

Non fiction
Bedford, Sybille Pleasures and Landscapes contemporary classic
Durrell, Lawrence Bitter Lemons postmodern classic
Durrell, Lawrence Prospero’s Cell postmodern classic
Kalfopoulou, Adrianne, Broken Greek contemporary memoir
Kalfopoulou, Adrianne, Ruin : Essays in Exilic Living contemporary memoir
Lawrence, D.H. Sea and Sardinia modernist literary travel writing
Lawrence, D.H. Etruscan Places modernist literary travel writing
Gilbert, Sari My Home Sweet Rome contemporary memoir
Wilde-Menozzi, Wallis Mother Tongue literary memoir
Wilde-Menozzi, Wallis, The Other Side of the Tiber literary memoir
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DH Lawrence and The Etruscan Door of the Soul

An Etruscan Tomb in Tuscia

D.H. Lawrence returned to Italy in 1927 after a soul-searching pilgrimage through Mexico, the American Southwest, Ceylon, Australia, and New Zealand. Gravely ill with tuberculosis, unaware of how little time he had left (he died three years later at the age of 44), Lawrence sought an ideal land where he might flourish as a "whole man alive" and find an antidote for the alienation of industrialized society.
Lawrence's last pilgrimage led him to the Etruscan ruins north of Rome. His idea was to write a travel book about the twelve great cities of Etruscan civilization. (The Etruscans were a sophisticated people who settled in the Italian peninsula between 900 and 800 B.C. and brought with them commerce and industry, greatly influencing the rise of the Roman kingdom.) Lawrence rejected the contemporary, scholarly views of the time: that Etruscans were inferior to the ancient Romans. Lawrence's approach to the Etruscans was highly personal and unscientific, yet his book, Etruscan Places, has shaped modern readers' ideas of this vanished people more than any other text.
Traveling on foot and by mule cart, Lawrence explored Tuscia-a wild, wooded area between Rome and Tuscany, where the center of Etruscan culture was located. He visited the frescoed tombs of Tarquinia and the rougher rock tombs of Cerveteri, as well as the sites of Vulci and Volterra. In the Etruscans, Lawrence found a life-affirming culture which exalted the body and which saw death as a journey towards renewal. The art decorating their tombs, eloquently described in Etruscan Places, bears witness to their faith in an unending joy.
The tombs Lawrence admired are easy to visit today, well-connected to Rome and Florence by a system of trains and buses. In Vulci and Volterra, museums offer informative displays on Etruscan history. In the frescoes of Tarquinia, pipers play on as red-skinned dancers perform to the delight of thousands of tourists per year. And copies of Etruscan Places are for sale everywhere. The mystery Lawrence relished may best be found off the tourist track-in the rock tombs carved along the ravines at Cerveteri and neighboring areas.
To get a sense of what these sites were like in Lawrence's time, while doing research for my novel. The Etruscan set in Lawrence's era, I recently visited one of the lesser known areas-out in the countryside, off the main road. Covered with ivy, the huge tombs carved in cliffs face out upon a ravine. Wandering through the tall weeds, I approached a tumulus where a tall doorway led into a chamber hollowed in the rock. There at the back stood the fake door, which Lawrence called the door of the soul, as it had no real opening and was only painted or carved on the wall surface. I think of Lawrence sitting in a chamber like this one, contemplating the door of the soul-a barrier for the body, but not for the imagination. More than a travel book, his Etruscan Places is a spiritual testament celebrating the power of the imagination to carry us into other dimensions in search of the source of life.

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A Sign in the Labyrinth

a labyrinth on Crete

1. I stroll barefoot on the beach at Spinalonga across the crushed luminescence of tiny abalones. Scanning the shore for pocketable souvenirs, I note a cube of rock, striped with bands of red and green. An inscription appears as I look closer: spidery white script engraved upon the bands of red, and thick, black gothic strokes across the green. The inscription runs along four sides of the chunk in an unbroken stream of notation.
I dip the rock into the sea to refresh its colors. A few letters leap out, unmistakable: alpha, theta, but the rest are illegible. On the lowest band is a row of white triangles resembling a highly stylized delta, all identical and evenly spaced, as if punched in the rock with the same carving tool. I am standing only a few feet from the crumbling Venetian bastions of the last leper’s colony in Europe, shut down over a half century ago. Could this have been scratched by an inmate on those dilapidated walls? Or has it been washed up from some far more ancient, sunken ruin of Byzantium?
Excitedly, I show it to my husband who stares at it amused and says I am imagining things. He sees nothing but the scribbling of sediment and sea worms on metamorphic rock. The inscription I see is merely an illusion, not archaeological artifice, he claims, and points out the rough edge where this piece has clearly broken off from a larger slab. The squiggles I call writing also appear on the part which would have been inside the slab. If you break this piece in half, he suggests, you’ll find the same squiggles and triangles inside, too.
I consider this argument and gradually yield to his logic. The shapes of the letters are transformed beneath our scrutiny, becoming less regular and defined, indeed less like writing. What I imagined as an inscription is not a text to be read by human eyes.
Not willing to give it up completely, I drop the rock, weighing about ten pounds, into my beach bag and drag it back to the car where I toss it in the backseat, along with piles of salt-stiffened beach towels, bricks of olive oil soap, bags of pungent oregano and mountain tea. As we drive around the Crete, I take out the rock whenever we stop, douse it with water and examine it anew. Sometimes the signs align themselves into script, but mostly they elude recognition. When the water dries, the markings fade.
We are on our way to walk a labyrinth. This being Crete, what better place? This is the home of the labyrinth, the maze built by King Minos’ architect, Dedalus, to imprison the Minotaur, his monstrous stepson, who demanded a sacrifice of Athenian youth every nine years. To put an end to all that, Theseus slayed the Minotaur and escaped the labyrinth, thanks to Mino’s daughter, Ariadne, who had taught him how to find his way out using a ball of thread. Abandoned by Theseus, Ariadne was courted and wed by the god Dionysus. Dedalus emigrated to Sardinia, where he imparted the art of spiral architecture to the native people there. The labyrinth remained bereft of its celebrated resident, but continued to resurface in art, dance and narrative in every continent.
Mythologists, archaeologists, philosophers, and mathematicians have debated the meaning of the labyrinth for centuries. The myth arose, claim some, from the thick mesh of passageways and cubbyholes beneath the palace of Knossos, laid bare in the last century by the excavations of Sir Arthur Evans. No claim others, it is a model of an anthropomorphized universe, a map of how nourishment moves in our entrails or of how synapses fire in our brain. By no means, claim the symbolists, the labyrinth is a universal symbol of gestation, death, rebirth, or a depiction of the underworld. Above all, it must be experienced in movement. Its meanders were designed to guide dancers along a ritual path, poised between sky and earth, beginning and ending in the same spot. Lastly, the labyrinth is associated with the Mother Goddess, she with the naked breasts and conical skirt, gripping two writhing serpents in her upraised fists, icon of Minoan culture.
For years, I came to Crete nearly every summer, to traipse through the mazelike rooms of Knossos and pay my homage to a small ceramic sculpture of the goddess on display in the Heraklion museum. From there I took a bus to the same village which over twenty years grew from a cluster of stone houses unwired for electricity to a sprawling town of air-conditioned supermarkets. A hiatus of ten years followed, during which I sought shores closer to home – Sardinia, Etruria, then one day woke with the obsession that I had to go back. In the meantime, I had heard, a group of German women had built a labyrinth there, assembled out of stones gathered from those sun-scorched hills laid out in the pattern of the Chartres cathedral labyrinth. I knew I had to walk it. So we packed the car, bought ferry tickets, and set off from the Italian port of Ancona.
A friend has told us where to find the labyrinth: not far from a threshing floor on the barren hillside on the outskirts of the village. There were several circular threshing floors in this village once, slabs of concrete edged with paving stones, last used perhaps thirty years ago at harvest time. On summer nights I often sat within that magic space stargazing at the frothy spirals of the milky way and in the day time, sometimes, I danced. No other landscape had ever inspired me to dance with joy as Crete did when I was twenty-five. Observed by no one but the rocks and a friendly donkey tethered nearby, I whirled in a purple granny dress and flung my arms out towards the cobalt sea in gestures of longing, benediction, and pure delight. I did not know then that dance was a form of worship in ancient times, but something in the landscape spoke directly to my body and my feet.
Today, we scour the hillside in search of the rocky spiral, and at last find it, though heavy winter rains washing down the mountain and grazing goats have wreaked havoc of its pathways. Goat droppings sully the sacred center. Under the blazing sun, we set about reconstructing the trails, brushing away rubble and debris with fragrant twigs of thyme, lining up the scattered rocks to mark the turnings. When it is complete, we begin our walk.
The first few steps draw me near the center, creating the expectation of easy arrival, but then I must rotate on my axis , as I am propelled to the outermost edge and spun a hundred and eighty degrees to the far side, like a drunken planet wobbling in and out of an uncertain orbit before being drawn swiftly back towards the sun. You cannot really see the pattern when you are inside it. What feels like a deflection, a wrong direction is only one folding of the weft.
As I walk the loops, I try to bear in mind the three phases of the labyrinth prayer. Concentrate on a question or need as you wind towards the center, open yourself to higher forces when you reach the heart, release your desire or need to the cosmos as you exit the boundary back to ordinary space where answers shall be forthcoming. I am uninspired it seems, I have come thousands of miles to thread this labyrinth yet no illuminations rush in. But when I step across the line back into linear time, I know that I must leave the strange rock I found in Spinalonga here inside in the labyrinth. I return to the car to fetch the rock, reenter the loops and seek a place to put it, noting as I do that in the strong sunlight, the inscription seems to have disappeared.
Poets and philosophers have often remarked on the sublime solitude of the Greek landscape, where, despite desolation, you feel you are not alone – you are watched, sometimes scrutinized, protected, recorded even, as if you were a piece of narrative unfolding in its terrain being read by a greater eye. This sensation of being observed comes to me as I set my rock in place and slip a newly minted EU coin underneath, wondering when, if ever I will be back to look for it. Perhaps it is then that the illumination comes. I have added a small sign to the overall design, participated with those women who first assembled it years ago, who have moved on to other things in their lives, as I will, too when I leave this island. We are part of a story although we can’t see the design, intended for a reader whose consciousness infuses these rocks, hills, stones, the crows circling overhead. Although I move more slowly now than I did thirty years ago, now I see the meanders linking far flung places and people in my life to this one spot, and although it seems I have traveled far from the center, the next turning will surely bring me back to the core of pure delight.

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