Ten Tributes to Calvino Read Online Free Page A

in Oxford he might cross Gloucester Green and so begin to think of Gloucester; in Gloucester he can loiter on Cheltenham Road while he daydreams of Cheltenham; in Cheltenham there is a Bath Road; in Bath an Upper Bristol Road; in Bristol a Coventry Walk; in Coventry a Norwich Drive; in Norwich a Quebec Road.
    Simply by arriving in London one rainy day the traveller has already moved in some part to Canada, in terms of reference, of imagery. He is connected with places outside his actual location, and those other places are similarly connected. This process is endless and forms a gigantic loop, or rather a net that ensnares the world, for London does not evoke merely one city, Oxford, but a thousand others, each with a myriad evocations of its own. All cities are invisible lenses that diffuse a sense of place, all except the unambiguous Itselfia.
    The method by which Itselfia evokes only itself is disappointingly simple. Every street, however long or short, has the same name. Likewise every square, park, building. It might be supposed that the inhabitants can still distinguish certain areas by painting houses different colours or planting trees in recognisable patterns. But without names a destination becomes merely a description, subject to inaccuracies and fatal misunderstandings. The Street of Green Houses is a new name; a street of green houses is not. The former if outlawed in Itselfia; the latter is permitted but useless.
    I wanted to live in Itselfia and decided to look for work there. The journey was long and not without incident. I entered the city under the imposing arch of Itselfia Gate and walked down Itselfia Street as far as Itselfia Square. I asked for directions to Itselfia Hotel, where I planned to spend the night. I was given the same reply from many people: “Turn right or left on any corner, walk up or down any street, cross any square and knock on the door of any house.” These directions were both vague and precise. I did not find my hotel. I drank wine in a garden instead.
    Itselfia is not quite a labyrinth, for a labyrinth evokes other labyrinths, some with walls of stone, some with walls or thorns and leaves. Itselfia is too homely, too comfortable to be a labyrinth. When a man is lost in a labyrinth he is always where he does not wish to be. When a man is lost in Itselfia he is always in his desired place, in the right house, on the right street, listening to guitars under the right willow. It was many months before I managed to escape Itselfia. I can no longer remember if I left willingly or not. But I have never returned.
     

The Non-Existent Viscount in the Trees
     
    Just by chance I am a very helpful man. I went to the market and overheard a conversation between a grocer and a customer. It turned out that the customer was the famous Soviet writer who came in from the cold — CCCP Snow. I remembered reading his books when I was a very helpful student, years ago.
    “Do you still favour social realism in novels?” I asked him.
    He shook his head. “I’m planning to move into more Calvinoesque territory if I can, but I haven’t made a start yet.”
    “No worries,” I replied. “I’ll give you a lift.”
    His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
    “The territory you mention is beyond the woods behind my house. My car is outside. It won’t take long to get there.”
    He was doubtful but he finally accepted my offer. We drove out of the town and turned up the lane that forms the eastern boundary of my large garden. It is a well-tended piece of land and because I am very helpful all the gardens of my neighbours are equally pleasant. But my passenger was more concerned with our destination.
    “How will we know when we arrive?” he enquired.
    “Keep an eye open for the Non-Existent Viscount in the Trees. When you see him, that’s a strong indication.”
    He was silent for some minutes and then he said, “The best thing you can do is skip ahead and insert your own name into all the