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I own many books which bear traces of their former owners and most dearly loved by me are those traces which seems to be, or obviously are, inscribed by a lover to his, or her, beloved. In my very good copy of Swinburne’s Poems—one volume of an undated...

… quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante … in a throbbing pale blue mist which wax he follows her wavings and reads aloud of a Nymph, Queen of the Western Island which weaves and cut the thread and all along she strokes like wind on grassy mounds and...

… memories afloat in the pale purple twilight … wraith-like falling cloaks, cracked stone basin beside the shaded white trace, a dark green maze of low hedgerows, a stone dog unaccountably dislodged, top of the tower unaccessible back then … once upon...

If it is possible to assume that beside Wisdom there is a single wisdom for every single life that ever has been, is and will be; or if every single life has its aslant and liminal wisdom and its meaning in its particular oddity; then a single forgotten...

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