Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
This grossly advertised wonder [Venice], this gold idol with clay feet, this trompe-l'oeil, this painted deception, this cliche-what intelligent iconoclast could fail to experience a destructive impulse in her presence?
I had my dreams of Venice, but nothing that I had dreamed was as impossible as what I found.
Venice, Italy, is one of my favorite cities, a place I've been lucky enough to visit twice.
Underneath Day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls
If I could live in one city and do every single thing I do there, I would choose Venice. You can't turn your head without seeing something amazing.
Venice, that capital city of dream and intrigue, that double city (one above and seemingly solid, one below, wavering and reflected in the waters), which never disappoints.
In memory Venice is always magic.
Venice is beautiful, but like a Bergman movie is beautiful; you can admire it, but you don't really want to live in it.
Venice is a cheek-by-jowl, back-of-the-hand, under-the-counter, higgledy-piggledy, anecdotal city, and she is rich in piquant wrinkled things, like an assortment of bric-a-brac in the house of a wayward connoisseur, or parasites on an oyster-shell.
