Dreams of Greece
“CRETE IS A CHIMERA, A MONSTER OF MYTH: a rhinoceros-headed salamander swimming resolutely towards the West, whilst the Peloponnese, like the hand of Adam in the centre of Michelangelo’s fresco, seems to tender its promontories regretfully towards the East, scattering a handful of archipelagos in the guise of an adieu … I pass hours in this manner, dreaming over the map of Greece.”
I wish I had written that, but it’s the opening of Lucien d’Azay’s , a surreally tender novel of fatherhood, goats and Rupert Brooke, which I amé, at the Albero d’Oro Foundation at Palazzo Vendramin Grimani, was my last Venetian engagement before embarking for the Dodecanese.
