Of Venice, Italy:

A fit abode for a poet. Stage setting at least correct.

The greenest island of my imagination.

Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs at one go.

You desire to embrace it, to caress it, to possess it; and finally a soft sense of possession grows up and your visit becomes a perpetual love affair.

The things of this world reveal their essential absurdity when they are put in the Venetian context. In the unreal realm of the canals, as in a Swiftian Lilliput, the real world, with its contrivances, appears as a vast folly.

I’m glad to find that you dislike Venice because I thought it detestable when we were there, both times — once it might be due to insanity but not twice, so I thought it must be my fault. I suppose the obscurer reaches might be beautiful.