Thursday, 27 October 2011


In the winter,Venice is like an abandoned theatre, the play is finished but the echo's remain.

(Arbit Blatas)

A city for beavers.

(Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Friday, 21 October 2011


A splendour of miscellaneous spirits.

(John Ruskin)

There is something so different in Venice from any other place in the world, that you leave at once all accustomed habits and everyday sights to enter an enchanted garden.

(Mary Shelley)

Wednesday, 12 October 2011


The waves rose with growing fury, each over-topping its fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster. White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the shelving cliffs. Others broke over the piers, and with their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier of Whitby harbour.

(Bram Stoker. Dracula)

But in those remote days the one inn of Whitby was up a back yard, and oyster shell grottoes were the only view fom the best private room.

(From the Letters of Charles Dickens)