Trieste And The Meaning Of Nowhere
Jan Morris
Language: English
Pages: 224
ISBN: 0306811804
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
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times of rebellious fervour, life was habitually calm. No gendarmerie could look much more reassuring than the officers of the municipal guard, called the lamparetti because of their nocturnal patrols, who glare back at us from their group photographs. They look a mature, stalwart, self-confident corps, more than a match for any hooligans or drunken seamen; all with virile moustaches, some with Franz Joseph whiskers too, wearing plumed Tyrolean hats and bearing themselves with tremendous
lived for a time in New York, where he found himself a wife. Napoleon had made him first a general, then a king, annulled his American marriage and wedded him off to a daughter of the King of Württemberg. In Trieste, his own trumped-up monarchy having collapsed, he called himself at first the Comte de Hartz; but when Napoleon escaped from Elba and he himself he went off to share the defeat at Waterloo, he returned to the city as the Prince de Montfort. Trieste suited Jérôme. He lived splendidly
Venice has its lagoon of floods and mudflats. Edinburgh has its grim Old Town on the hill, permanently sneering at the Georgian urbanity below. Until recently Hong Kong had its notorious Walled City, a cloistered labyrinth whose very sovereignty was indeterminate. Most old cities have pockets of sin, where cautious visitors do not care to go, and it is a weakness of planned capitals that generations must pass before any of their districts acquire disreputable qualifications. When the
Jesuits—its successor still exists, opposite the Civic Library. The Austrian East India Company had its base here, in the days when all European States were competing for markets in the east, and built ships in its own Trieste yards, not far from today’s railway station. If you drive through the industrial quarters beside Muggia bay, with docks and warehouses all around you, and elevated highways threading over and under one another, you may notice an apparent castle tower protruding diffidently
city. More bronzed young sunbathers than ever packed the promenade of Barcola, flat out, buttock to bosom, along the stony shore, and scullers in the bay cockily swapped badinage with the elderly anglers on the Molo Audace. Every morning something new and startling greeted me, when I walked through the streets after breakfast. If it was not a World Power-Boat Championship it was an International Exhibition of Pens, if it was not the Via Dante being repaved it was the Museum Revoltella being
