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Watermark

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WATERMARK is an apt title for this splendid collection of thoughts and fugues on the city of Venice, a place where Brodsky returned yearly for seventeen years and where in the solitude of the winter months in this most desirable of tourist destinations he composed some of his best poetry and translations. Brodsky's title refers to the repeated traces (watermarks) the sea makes on the canals and decaying buildings of Venice, like pages from a book of history or of poetry, or a novel. He writes extended soliloquies about the surfaces of the water in the canals and in the surrrounding sea that softly and surely continues to submerge Venice. He also writes colloquies of conversations with Ezra Pound's widow and the subsequent memories and opinions of that controversial figure. His rambling discourses while strolling the narrow streets that follow the canals inevitably to the sea are rich in observation and philosophy. His love for Venice is always palpable. '...the whole city, especially at night, resembles a gigantic orchestra, with dimly lit music stands of palazzi, with a restless chorus of waves, with the falsetto of a star in the winter sky. The music is, of course, greater than the band, and no hand can turn the page.'

Joseph Brodsky is at his finest in much of this small volume. For those who love Venice by association or by dreams of history and the music of Vivaldi, Bellini, and the art of Tiepolo or Titian, this collection of reveries is a must. Elegant, charming, stimulating, and nostalgic.

Brodsky writes of his memories of seventeen winters in Venice. He has captured the shimmering essence of the Serene Republic in a series of short essays. His focus, as that of the city, is on the water and its reflective capacity. The water and city mirror an inner process for Brodsky and many others who visit. He explores the theme of light upon water from many perspectives, ultimately acknowledging the mystery of both the city, the water and the attachment formed. These memories, fragmented as light on water, will bring any traveler back to the beauty and wonder of Venezia

For any reader who wants to recreate the mesmerizing effect of walking the watery streets of Venice, reading this book will do it. As you enter Brodsky's very personal meditation on the ancient city that has enchanted so many for so long, his thoughts become your own, and all at once you are there. Dipping into the pages of this book is an armchair traveler's paradise.

Brodsky is coyly, conciously self-indulgent here, by publishing thoughts about his favorite little city ... maybe everyone's favorite little city. Some of these essays are like shrugs: "this is how i feel, this is what it may mean. who knows?" Some are far more ardent, on the verge of revelation. Brodsky's humor, and casual seriousness, make this tiny book a real pleasure to hang out with.

A remarkable synthesis of poetry and prose. His style reveals impressions rather than what he has seen. The best comparison that I can think of is a dream that you remember vividly.

Much deeper than the typical travel memoir, Brodsky's recollections about his winter trips to Venice exposes much more than the charms of Venice. It provides insights into travel itself, and dare I say, human nature. The book is quite short, and reads more as a series of short stories tied together by the theme of Venice in winter.

This is a cute little book on the impressions of Venice in Winter
by Brodsky. Given that the beauty of Venice in Winter is extraordinary, I expected more insights from an accomplished poet like Brodsky. Briefly, you learn more about Brodsky than about Venice (Winter or Summer).. Maybe I have been annoyed by some sloppiness in the writing: for Brodsky, all churches in Venice are cathedrals (there can be only one cathedral per town), and his comment that time cannot have beauty is strange (I can see Proust turning over in his tomb, rightfully so, his whole Recherches is about the beauty of time). And his attack on Ezra Pound is unnecessary. Ezra Pound is a tragic figure, and his Fascist propaganda in WWII was treason, with no excuses. But it simply does not belong in Venice in Winter, he really went out of his way to attack Ezra Pound. Excusatio non petita, accusatio manifesta?