Book : The City Of Falling Angels - Berendt, John

-Titulo Original : The City Of Falling Angels

-Fabricante :

Penguin Books

-Descripcion Original:

A #1 New York Times Bestseller!Funny, insightful, illuminating . . . -The Boston GlobeTwelve years ago, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil exploded into a monumental success, residing a record-breaking four years on the New York Times bestseller list (longer than any work of fiction or nonfiction had before) and turning John Berendt into a household name. The City of Falling Angels is Berendts first book since Midnight, and it immediately reminds one what all the fuss was about. Turning to the magic, mystery, and decadence of Venice, Berendt gradually reveals the truth behind a sensational fire that in 1996 destroyed the historic Fenice opera house. Encountering a rich cast of characters, Berendt tells a tale full of atmosphere and surprise as the stories build, one after the other, ultimately coming together to portray a world as finely drawn as a still-life painting. Review Funny, insightful, illuminating . . . [Venice] reveals itself, slowly, discreetly, under Berendts gentle but persistent prying. -The Boston GlobeBerendt has given us something uniquely different . . . . Thanks to [his] splendid cityportrait, even those of us far from Venice can marvel. -The Wall Street Journal About the Author John Berendt has been a columnist for Esquire and the editor of New York magazine, and is the author of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, which was a finalist for the 1995 Pulitzer Prize in general nonfiction. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. An Evening in Venice THE AIR STILL SMELLED OF CHARCOAL when I arrived in Venice three days after the fire. As it happened, the timing of my visit was purely coincidental. I had made plans, months before, to come to Venice for a few weeks in the off-season in order to enjoy the city without the crush of other tourists.If there had been a wind Monday night, the water-taxi driver told me as we came across the lagoon from the airport, there wouldnt be a Venice to come to.How did it happen? I asked.The taxi driver shrugged. How do all these things happen?It was early February, in the middle of the peaceful lull that settles over Venice every year between New Years Day and Carnival. The tourists had gone, and in their absence the Venice they inhabited had all but closed down. Hotel lobbies and souvenir shops stood virtually empty. Gondolas lay tethered to poles and covered in blue tarpaulin. Unbought copies of the International Herald Tribune remained on newsstand racks all day, and pigeons abandoned sparse pickings in St. Marks Square to scavenge for crumbs in other parts of the city.Meanwhile the other Venice, the one inhabited by Venetians, was as busy as ever-the neighborhood shops, the vegetable stands, the fish markets, the wine bars. For these few weeks, Venetians could stride through their city without having to squeeze past dense clusters of slow-moving tourists. The city breathed, its pulse quickened. Venetians had Venice all to themselves.But the atmosphere was subdued. People spoke in hushed, dazed tones of the sort one hears when there has been a sudden death in the family. The subject was on everyones lips. Within days I had heard about it in such detail I felt as if I had been there myself.IT HAPPENED ON MONDAY EVENING, January 29, 1996.Shortly before nine oclock, Archimede Seguso sat down at the dinner table and unfolded his napkin. Before joining him, his wife went into the living room to lower the curtains, which was her long-standing evening ritual. Signora Seguso knew very well that no one could see in through the windows, but it was her way of enfolding her family in a domestic embrace. The Segusos lived on the third floor of Ca Capello, a sixteenth-century house in the heart of Venice. A narrow canal wrapped around two sides of the building before flowing into the Grand Canal a short distance away.Signor Seguso waited patiently at the table. He was eighty-six-tall, thin,