Italian Neighbors or, A Lapsed Anglo-Saxon in Verona [antikvár]

AUTHOR'S NOTE i often find it useful, or at least amusing, to think of a book in terms of a gesture, a mood, a posture. In which case the gesture of this book might be that of a busy but inexpert fellő w dashing about the narrow confines of his territory waving a net on the end of a long stick. It's not a butterfly net, by the looks of it. It's altogether too big for that, huge in fact. But it might be a will-o'-the-wisp net. Which would explain the extremely fine silk mesh, the random way it is being waved. And if we were to ask this frantic fellow what particular species of will-o'-the-wisp he is after? He stops, out of breath, surprised at our interest. Well, somé of the most common, he pants: national character, a sense of place, the feeling people, place, and weather generate. And how is he getting on? He shrugs, pouts, as if to say, this is a mug's game if ever there was one. Will-o'- the wisps-you know-the thing is, even when you do catch one for a moment you have a terrible job recognizing them, and then when you pin them on the pages of your book they immediately