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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=389983" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Venice, November, 1966</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=389983" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">With his head full of Shakespearean tempests<br>and old notions of poetic justice,<br>he was ready with his elegies<br>the day the ocean sailed into the square.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=389983" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">'The sea,' he wrote, 'is a forgiving element,<br>and history only the old odor of blood.<br>She will come to rest on the soft floor<br>of the world, barnacled like a great pirate ship,<br>and blind fish-mouthing like girls before a glass-<br>will bump, perhaps, San Marco's brittle bones.'</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=389983" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Pleased with these images, he paused<br>and conjured visions of a wet apocalypse:<br>the blown church bobbing like a monstrous water toy,<br>Doge Dandolo's bronze horses from Byzantium<br>pawing the black waves, incredulous pigeons<br>hovering like gulls over the drowning square,<br>mosaic saints floating gently to pieces.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=389983" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Then he waited as the wind rose, as gondoliers<br>were rocking in the long furrows of their boats<br>and small waves licked the marble lions' eyes.<br>But still this most improbable of cities<br>hung on, lewdly enjoying her own smell.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=389983" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Learning later how Florence, with her brown bells,<br>her dried-up joke of a river, had played<br>the ark to all his fantasies of flood,<br>he felt a little foolish. He was walking<br>in the gallery then, thinking of the doges:<br>how they tread on clouds which puff and pucker<br>like the flesh of their fat Venetian whores;<br>how thanks to Tintoretto's shrewd, old eyes,<br>they saw themselves amid the holy saints;<br>how shrewd, old Tintoretto, for a price,<br>painted his patrons into paradise.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Erica+Jong">Erica Jong</a></strong></div>

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