Suppose you are looking for a very expensive book in Italian, an art book, or a book about the monuments of Rome, or a book of proverbs in both Italian and Russian that has been out-of-print for a decade. Let's be even more specific. Let's say you are looking for Paola della Pergola's work on the Villa Borghese, or possibly D'Onofrio's huge volume "Obelischi di Roma," one of those magnificent works that could only have been published because it was underwritten by an Italian bank, sometime in the heady late 1960s or 1970s, for Italian banks are maecenases supporting such works still, though not quite as readily or expensively as before, and of which only 2000 copies were printed, and you, like an idiot, didn't buy one at the time.
Well, you might still find such a volume at a bookstore in Rome right on Piazza San Silvestro. Not a dusty alfarrabista carrying all kinds of used books. No, these are all books,that have never been bought, but somehow remained in a warehouse or in a store, or perhaps at this very special bookstore on the Piazza San Silvestro, ready to be found by you even though all other copies have been bought up and the only ones you can find are used, even gently used copies "like new," at bookshops where they are priced far beyond your range.
Piazza San Silvestro.
There must be some reason why I'm taking note right now of Piazza San Silvestro. But I forget what it is.
Oops, it occurred to me while dealing with the burning poop (also see "the boy stood on the burning dreck" from the French writer, Jean "Ra's Garbage" Pail, who feared a Napoleon's Egyptian campaign in reverse as he described conditions on the *India Star*, a slow boat bearing not cotton for stuffed shirts, but the lesser of two weevils(1)) on the porcelain throne, that in retyping, a year and a half *imprisonment* was left out. -Though humming a few bars doth not make something from which not even 'err 'eisenberg could tunnel to Herr Eisenhower. It's just a well that no one found their marbles or deconstructed or disrobed "wearing a headset" with a lustig state of mind of Mikey's "David," a vast and almost trunkless immodest stone of a man with much to be modest about, given that I was enveloped in well-tempered Kleider at the time. On that note, and with a terrible gasp (see Kaufman-no, not George S.; the other one who, though he loved the maiden form, probably never rose above his station to reach the terrible clasp), I'll give a winken, blinken, nudge-nudge and nod of the head to Rocky, Ball Boa( see "Jackass Number 2"), and Sly Stone by taking a swing (and probably fanning as in base ball) at your mighty possessive Cleo's petras. 1. Apologies to the "Master & Commander" who sneered the command to one of his wrinkled Cupids to aspirate the cold waters of the Straits of Magellan.
Sylvester Stalag Stoned?
"Silvester/Sylvester" is one of the few words not forgotten from a year and half of Hochschule Kraut klasses. The only times that I recall the native German teacher smiling were when I'd hum a few bars of the Marseille while wearing a headset. Given my status as a leper and the low quantum probability that this particle of wit will "tunnel through," I won't bother to wish you all a Happy New Year's Eve. And after all, it's your site and your nuts.