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is a timelessness about her streets, and eternity in the flux of he run hurrying river, peace in her temples. Yes, peace in those filthy forecourts, infested with monkeys, strewn with dead flowers, wet with blood of goats . . . in spite of these things there is serenity.

p 96 - As usual, tourists were staring at the bathers, kodaking the corpses. . . .

I delight in a palpable imaginable visitable past - in the nearer distances and the clearer mysteries, the marks and signs of a world we may reach over to . . .

. . . the poetry of the thing outlived and lost and gone, and yet in which the precious element of closeness, telling so of connections but tasting so of differences, remains appreciable.

p 164 The Art of the Novel Henry James.

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