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4.05 AVERAGE
4.05 AVERAGE
What a delightful little book. So incredibly imaginative and inspiring. 5/5.
I read Invisible Cities as a "palate cleanser" after the brilliant behemoth that is [b:War and Peace|29779250|War and Peace|Leo Tolstoy|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1479337780l/29779250._SX50_.jpg|4912783], and it definitely lived up to my expectations - both as a breath of fresh air and an inspiration for a future architect.
With each city that Calvino conjures up, there is a sense of magic, uniquely attached to every separate identity. Some cities horrify the reader with their hideous nature, while others indulge them in fantastical beauty that can only exist in fiction. (My favourite themes were "Cities and the Dead" and "Continuous Cities" - the stories under those sections were the most memorable for me.)
Regardless though, one's imagination is thoroughly nourished as Marco Polo delineates these marvellous images to Kublai Khan. Calvino's dreamy prose transports the reader to a myriad of different realms that pampers their desire for exotic places. In a time like now, where we are stuck in our homes, a book like Invisible Cities is the perfect oasis for a retreat into fantastical worlds.
As I linger on the last page, trying to take in all of its beauty. It feels like my brain had just consumed the world's most refreshing and delicious mint. I'm excited to read more of Calvino's works (this was my first Calvino, and such a lovely introduction!); Invisible Cities has claimed a rightful place on my list of all-time favourites.
I read Invisible Cities as a "palate cleanser" after the brilliant behemoth that is [b:War and Peace|29779250|War and Peace|Leo Tolstoy|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1479337780l/29779250._SX50_.jpg|4912783], and it definitely lived up to my expectations - both as a breath of fresh air and an inspiration for a future architect.
With each city that Calvino conjures up, there is a sense of magic, uniquely attached to every separate identity. Some cities horrify the reader with their hideous nature, while others indulge them in fantastical beauty that can only exist in fiction. (My favourite themes were "Cities and the Dead" and "Continuous Cities" - the stories under those sections were the most memorable for me.)
Regardless though, one's imagination is thoroughly nourished as Marco Polo delineates these marvellous images to Kublai Khan. Calvino's dreamy prose transports the reader to a myriad of different realms that pampers their desire for exotic places. In a time like now, where we are stuck in our homes, a book like Invisible Cities is the perfect oasis for a retreat into fantastical worlds.
As I linger on the last page, trying to take in all of its beauty. It feels like my brain had just consumed the world's most refreshing and delicious mint. I'm excited to read more of Calvino's works (this was my first Calvino, and such a lovely introduction!); Invisible Cities has claimed a rightful place on my list of all-time favourites.
reflective
slow-paced
mysterious
reflective
relaxing
tense
fast-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
N/A
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
N/A
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Complicated
All’inizio del romanzo sei affascina da questo susseguirsi di città fantastiche, poi col passare delle pagine comprendi che in ogni città descritta da Calvino si trova nascosta una verità sulla realtà di oggi.
All’inizio del romanzo sei affascina da questo susseguirsi di città fantastiche, poi col passare delle pagine comprendi che in ogni città descritta da Calvino si trova nascosta una verità sulla realtà di oggi.
adventurous
challenging
mysterious
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
N/A
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
N/A
Diverse cast of characters:
N/A
Flaws of characters a main focus:
No
lighthearted
In Raissa, life is not happy. People wring their hands as they walk in the streets, curse the crying children, lean on the railings over the river and press their fists to the temples. In the morning you wake from one bad dream and another begins. At the workbenches where, every moment, you hit your finger with a hammer or prick it with a needle, or over the columns of figures all awry in the ledgers of merchants and bankers, or at the rows of empty glasses on the zinc counters of the wineshops, the bent heads at least conceal the general grim gaze. Inside the houses it is worse, and you do not have to enter to learn this: in the summer the windows resound with quarrels and broken dishes.
And yet, in Raissa, at every moment there is a child in a window who laughs seeing a dog that has jumped on a shed to bite into a piece of polenta dropped by a stonemason who has shouted from the top of the scaffolding, "Darling, let me dip into it," to a young serving maid who holds up a dish of ragout under the pergola, happy to serve it to the umbrella-maker who is celebrating a successful transaction, a white lace parasol bought to display at the races by a great lady in love with an officer who has smiled at her taking the last jump, happy man, and still happier his horse, flying over the obstacles, seeing a francolin flying in the sky, happy bird freed from its cage by a painter happy at having painted it feather by feather, speckled with red and yellow in the illumination of that page in the volume where the philosopher says: "Also in Raissa, city of sadness, there runs an invisible thread that binds one living being to another for a moment, then unravels, then is stretched again between moving points as it draws new and rapid patterns so that at every second the unhappy city contains a happy city unaware of its own existence."
And yet, in Raissa, at every moment there is a child in a window who laughs seeing a dog that has jumped on a shed to bite into a piece of polenta dropped by a stonemason who has shouted from the top of the scaffolding, "Darling, let me dip into it," to a young serving maid who holds up a dish of ragout under the pergola, happy to serve it to the umbrella-maker who is celebrating a successful transaction, a white lace parasol bought to display at the races by a great lady in love with an officer who has smiled at her taking the last jump, happy man, and still happier his horse, flying over the obstacles, seeing a francolin flying in the sky, happy bird freed from its cage by a painter happy at having painted it feather by feather, speckled with red and yellow in the illumination of that page in the volume where the philosopher says: "Also in Raissa, city of sadness, there runs an invisible thread that binds one living being to another for a moment, then unravels, then is stretched again between moving points as it draws new and rapid patterns so that at every second the unhappy city contains a happy city unaware of its own existence."