Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears.

Fantasy is like jam. . . . You have to spread it on a solid piece of bread. If not, it remains a shapeless thing . . . out of which you can’t make anything.

The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lightning rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls.

Who are we, who is each one of us, if not a combinatoria of experiences, information, books we have read, things imagined?

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler.

What harbor can receive you more securely than a great library?

You know that the best you can expect is to avoid the worst.