A Hobbling Tour of Florence and Rome, Part Four Il Museo dell’Opere del Duomo isn’t exactly a secret, but it has been reconfigured so many times, complete with address-changes, that it’s a bit elusive. So despite the fact that it contains glories, you don’t have to stand in a long line to get in. In
Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some
Powber Jimmy Borden was seven, and he had no friends. He had parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and a brother named Tommy, who was thirteen, but none of them were really his friends. His father George was a lawyer, and he worked long hours. Sometimes he had to spend several nights in a
At breakfast we met the terrazzo’s resident beggar-pigeon, a bird who has claimed the terrace as his turf and defends it vigorously from rivals pecking around for bits of bread tossed by the diners, despite the fact that instead of a tail he has only a gray stump. Angelo and the rest of the staff