ourist in italy, of all these disfigured and decaying things, which, after all, are essentially nothing more than accidental remains from another time and from a life that is not and should not be ours. finally, after weeks of daily resistance, one finds oneself somewhat composed again, even though still a bit confused, and one says to oneself: no, there is not more beauty here than in other places, and all these objects, which have been marveled at by generation after generation, mended and restored by the hands of workmen, mean nothing, are nothing, and have noheart and no value; but there is much beauty here, because every where there is much beauty. waters infinitely full of life move along the ancient aqueducts into the great city and dance in the many city squares over white basins of stone and spread out in large, spacious pools and murmur by day and lift up their murmuring to the night, which is vast here and starry and soft with winds. and there are gardens here, unforgettable

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