Dead mouse

The long -livers of Venice still remember how in the XIV century the Venetian bowels swallowed the entire canal with all its garbage and deadly and after two weeks dug up the pure water. Maybe, just during these two weeks, the metaphor of the "bottom of life" was first born: the bottom of the channels was so puzzled. Since then, the Venetians have dreamed of a new spontaneous deliverance, but instead of a cleansing earthquake, they have to be content with miserable castings. They expose piles in brown mucus, watermelon crusts, skeletons of guitars, Gondol coffin. There are about two hundred channels in Venice, but they can’t digest tons of shit flowing into the water directly from sewer taps. Once Lawrence Darrell, in love with Provence, enthusiastically wrote about the smell of urine, picked up by French cheeses. I wonder what charm he would find in Venetian excrement. Although in the phrase "pigeon droppings" there is still something poetic. Another Briton, art critic and, inappropriately, will be said, the son of the winemaker, John Ruskin called Venice a "city of dirt." Venice really champs or, as Pasternak put it, "there were waves, a helmet with longing." Schooling is not only to wander, drag your legs, but also plopped off. I have other associations in Venice: I recall the physiological humor of undergrowth in the school sports hall, as they chavish their palms in the armpits. Pushkin, dreaming, wrote:

I will enjoy in the wild

With Venice Mlade ...

Pasternak replaced the archaic "I" to modern "A", but remained as romantic, although in August 1912 he personally sniffed Venice:

In the distance at the boat parking

In the remains of sleep, reality was born.

Venice Venetian

She rushed from the embankments.

But who will love such a Venetian? Imagine how she emerges from the water in the same brown mucus as the piles. True, the same long -livers remember that a tablet hung on the Rialto bridge a hundred years ago: "Spit in floating is prohibited." So, after all, then the Venetian water was cleaner than saliva? Who knows, this is dark. A. Kushner during the years of stagnant Russian waters from afar discerned Venice better than Pasternak:

Venice, when you shine like that

As if I really see you,

And the mouse is daring in your channel ...

Well, "a statue hidden in a niche" hollow.

Does all this mean that I do not like Venice? It always shuts me to be incorrectly understood, but from this it is rarely possible. Before, I thought that God was merciful to me: He never brought me to a seductive tuberculosis. In Venice, with its seductively unclean gills, God turned away from me. But what am I about myself and about myself? Better about her, Venice, with the mouth of Ivan Kozlov:

Cote dance, languid rook

A little crushing waves

Pomerantsev, Mirtov whisper

And the love light of the moon ...

From the book "On the Befort scale"