Invisible Cities

All the spaces we inhabit are in some way our dreams. All the spaces we pass through are composed by our subjective perceptions for us as much as they are composed of the objective material that works on those perceptions. All spaces hold and reflect something of ourselves, our histories. I sit in my carefully arranged room composing this piece on Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities; I am seated in a comfortable chair, it is arranged below a window that lets in copious light in the mornings and afternoons, to better aid my reading and my writing, it is within leg’s reach of my bed, on which I rest my legs, and my laptop sits comfortably on my thighs, and being that my room is a converted attic with walls painted white and few decorations, I enjoy, in pauses between spans of typing, watching the late afternoon light play on the white walls with its brightness and shadows over the angular lines that used to delineate where the roof rose; the ceiling slopes at strong angles, there is a skylight above my bed that I generally keep covered, that during storms resounds with a soothing percussive patter. The only decoration on my walls is a block print of a human heart. It hangs adjacent to the west facing window, which catches light later than the windows behind me, which are south-easterly. Books run along my walls and rest in stacks beside my bed, a record player and stereo are directly to my left, on a kind of shelf, and records and books cascade here and there. This is my space, I have lived in it for years, I have made it mine, it is an outward projection of my interior; I have attempted to make the walls show their stark angles more strikingly by not cluttering them with decoration; I have placed my clothes carefully away and set my possessions in a pleasant order so that there are fewer obstructions to my thinking and motion; my bed is positioned so the south-easterly morning light does not interfere with my sleeping; the lamp is within arm’s reach of the bed; the only picture on my wall is of a heart. This room is as much my interior as my exterior, it suits all of my physical and psychic needs, the form it has taken is a reflection of some pattern determined within my being, almost without my being aware of it. Our exteriors, the things we inhabit and therefore influence and change by our thoughts, efforts, ambitions, are changed in accordance with interior demands, interior desires, interior longings, hopes, etc. It is the same for streets, cities, countries. The interior lives of the inhabitants of these places create the exteriors that they then exist within, shop in, shuffle about, fight, make love, laugh and die in. The physical world is a creation of the conscious and unconscious intentions of the human imagination, an agglomeration of all human hopes, drives, desires, made into a material reality.

So everything imaginable is realizable; and whether it is realizable in concrete, in steel, in glass, in brick, in flesh, or whether it is only realizable in images, words, pictures, pixels, is of little difference. A perfectly constructed sentence, a perfectly rendered painting, a perfectly filmed scene, a perfect cascade of musical tones- they are manifest realizations of ideas. All is possible that one can imagine if one can speak it, draw it, compose it. The limitations of the architect, the city-planner, the foreman can be realized by the artist, the writer, the photographer. The human imagination is infinite, and every iteration, every form, is in some way achievable.

Calvino’s Invisible Cities is a document of these ideas; it is a proof, in perfectly constructed, astoundingly deep and evocative sentences, that whatever we dream can be and will be fulfilled. That just two souls, sitting in a garden, outside of time and within it, their lips fixed to pipe stems, watching smoke trails’ shifting patterns ascend the sky and exchanging mere words, can invent a universe; and that the universe of the living which is the source and inspiration for their visions can be rendered into symbols that can then supersede, magnify, illuminate, and reorder that living world into something that speaks to and connects very deeply with the hidden currents and vibrations of what it is to be a thinking, desiring, dreaming human being. This is a profound book, one of those rare works where nothing seems missing or superfluous, where every sentence locks into a kind of crystalline totality, an affirmation of the vital importance and sovereignty of works of the imagination.

”The catalogue of forms is endless: until every shape has found its city, new cities will continue to be born. When the forms exhaust their variety and come apart, the end of cities begins.”-pg. 139

”Elsewhere is a negative mirror. The traveler recognizes the little that is his, discovering the much he has not had and will never have.”-pg. 29

”’I have also thought of a model city from which I deduce all the others,’ Marco answered. ‘It is a city made only of exceptions, exclusions, incongruities, contradictions. If such a city is the most improbable, by reducing the number of abnormal elements, we increase the probability that the city really exists. So I have only to subtract exceptions from my model, and in whatever direction I proceed, I will arrive at one of the cities which, always as an exception, exist. But I cannot force my operations beyond a certain limit: I would achieve cities too probable to be real.’”-pg. 69

"The inferno of the living is not something that will be; if there is one, it is what is already here, the inferno where we live every day, that we form by being together. There are two ways to escape suffering it. The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become such a part of it that you can no longer see it. The second is risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension; seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the midst of the inferno, are not inferno, then make them endure, give them space."-pg. 165

آپدیت 20 فروردین 1400

بالاخره بر تنبلی چیره شدم و شهر رو نوشتم:

شهرها و زخم‌ها

اول بار که وارد زخمینه شدم کودکی بیش نبودم. شهری کوچک در کنار ساحلی که آتش خورشید هر دم آن را می‌سوزاند و تنها در ابتدا و انتهای سفر هرروزه‌اش بود که اندکی به مردمان ساحل‌نشین و جاشوان لنج‌های باری امان می‌داد. اولین زخم‌هایی که در این شهر دیدم در گوشه چشمان ساکنین آن بود که گزند تابش آفتاب آن‌ها را نقش میزد. چشمانی که در طی سالیان دراز با شکاف‌هایی عمیق و چین‌هایی متعدد احاطه می‌شد.

اما این تنها چشمان مردم نبود که زخمی بر خود داشت. در و دیوار خانه‌های شهر نیز پر بود از زخم‌های تیره و معوجی بود که خونی ازشان نمی‌چکید و هرسال یا عریض‌تر می‌شد و یا دنباله آن کمی درازتر می‌گشت. با وجود آن که گاهی از لابه‌لای این شکاف‌ها مهمانان ناخوانده‌ای وارد می‌شدند، ساکنین خانه‌ها اما چندان تمایلی به پوشاندن این تَرَک‌ها و شکاف‌ها نداشتند.

عجیب‌تر از همه این‌ها زخم‌های بزرگ و درازی بودند که بر روی بدن مردم شهر نشسته بود. روی درست، کف پا، روی زانو، گونه و یا پشت گوش. در ابتدا تصور می‌کردم که این زخم‌ها بر اثر بی‌احتیاطی و یا حادثه‌ای روی پوست‌شان نشسته، ولی پس از مدتی پی بردم که این زخم‌ها هیچ‌گاه از بین نمی‌روند و مهم نیست که چقدر کوچک باشند. یک بار در گفتگویی که با یکی از ملوانان داشتم علت آن را پرسیدم. با دستش به زخمی که روی زانویش بود اشاره کرد و گفت: «این رو وقتی که بچه بودم برداشتم. بعد از اون هیچ وقت توی شهر اتفاقی نیافتاده که زخمی بشم. روی دریا چرا! طناب کف دستامو زیاد بریده. اما همین که پا روی خشکی می‌ذارم، دیگه هیچی نمیشه.» سرش را آرام نزدیک گوشم برد و زمزمه کرد: «میگن وقتی تو این شهر زخمی بشی، هیچ وقت فراموشش نمی‌کنی. شهرم هیچوقت فراموشت نمی‌کنه.»

تصور این که زخمی برای همیشه روی پوستم باقی بماند همیشه مرا می‌ترساند. شب‌هایی بود که کابوس می‌دیدم که دستم به میخی گرفته و یا گربه‌ای به پایم پنجه می‌کشد. بالاخره در یک روز پایم در حیاط خانه سر خورد و گوشه ابرویم شکافی برداشت. کمتر از یک سال بعد، کار پدرم در آن شهر تمام شد و من همراه خانواده از آن شهر رفتیم.

سیزده سال بعد دوباره در سفری برگشتیم به زخمینه. پس از سیزده سال، تنها من بودم که از بین اعضای خانواده توانستم دوباره خانه قدیمی‌مان را پیدا کنم. شاید به این دلیل بود از آن جمع تنها من بودم که در آن شهر زخمی برداشته بودم. شاید حرف آن ملوان درست بود، شاید هم نه. شاید ساکنین شهر کاملا تصادفی زخمی می‌شدند. شایدم هم این خود شهر بود که عمداً زخمی می‌کردشان. پس از سیزده سال فهمیدم که این شهر نمک‌گیر که نه، زخم‌گیر می‌کند.
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تجربه کاملا جدیدی بود برای من. خوندن شهرهای نامرئی که هرکدوم درمورد یه چیزی حرف میزنن و یه شکل عجیب و منحصر به فردی دارن. البته باید اعتراف کنم که اخرای کتاب کمی از این منحصر‌به فرد بودنشون کاسته شد. ولی همچنان اون حالت شعرگونه شهرها برام جذاب بود. اینک کالوینو با ایجازو نماد سعی میکرد مفاهیم متفاوتی رو با ساختن شهرهای خیالی خودش منتقل کنه.

و جدای از اون، بحث و شنیدن تعابیر مختلف از زبون هم‌خوان‌های عزیز، لذتشو بیشتر می‌کرد.

اگر میتونید انگلیسی بخونید، که انگلیسی بخونید. اگر هم میخواید فارسی بخونید، سراغ ترجمه ترانه یلدا نرید.

پ.ن.: خیلی دلم می‌خواست تجربه خودم از شهری که یه زمانی توش زندگی می‌کردم رو به شیوه‌ای مشابه شیوه کالوینو برای روایت شهرهاش رو توی این ریویو بیارم، اما فعلا مغزم نمیکشه. شاید بعدا این کارو کردم. شاید.

Όταν διαβάζει κανείς τις αόρατες πόλεις, είναι σαν να κρατά στα χέρια του ένα ονειρικό view master, κάθε μικρό κεφάλαιο και ένα κλικ μετατόπισης σε μια νέα οπτική, σε μια νέα εικόνα, σε μια νέα φανταστική πόλη. Εικονοπλαστικό βιβλίο, μόνο αν έχει κανείς ακονίσει το φαντασιακό του αισθητήριο θα μπορέσει να εισχωρήσει στο δαιδαλώδες ψηφιδωτό, να αδράξει κάποιο σύμβολο, να μυρίσει το λουλούδι, τη μούχλα, να πέσει το μάτι του πάνω στα αόρατα έμψυχα και άψυχα αποκυήματα της φαντασίας του Μάρκο Πόλο, μεσίτη εικόνων για χάρη του αυτοκράτορα των Μογγόλων Κουμπλάι Χαν.

Η ανάγνωση μπορεί να τελείται σε πολλά επίπεδα, αναλόγως τη διάθεση μετατόπισης του καθενός. Όσο ο φακός του αναγνώστη προτίθεται να «πάρει» τη μεγάλη εικόνα, μια πολυεδρικότητα διακρίνεται, με την κάθε έδρα να δίνει κάθε φορά το χρώμα, την αίσθηση, το ένα ή το άλλο χαρακτηριστικό που προεξέχει, τα μυστικά, τον τρόπο «εκτέλεσης» της κάθε πόλης. Σαφώς η αρχιτεκτονική σκοπιά κέρδισε έδαφος, στα δικά μου μάτια σίγουρα: το δομημένο περιβάλλον είναι ανθρώπων έργο και συνυφαίνεται με την καθημερινή ζωή τόσο σφιχτά, που εκπέμπει σε αυτούς που το κατοικούν κάποια σήματα, άλλοτε καταφανή κι άλλοτε αόρατα. Συστατικά μιας πόλης δεν είναι μόνο οι κάτοικοι και τα κτίρια, δεν είναι μόνο αυτά που διαμορφώνουν αυτήν και την αέναη πορεία της μέσα στον χρόνο. Υπάρχει μια διαστρωμάτωση, αμάλγαμα όλων αυτών των συστατικών, και αφαιρώντας κάθε φορά ένα φιλμ επικάλυψης, περνάει κανείς στο δεύτερο επίπεδο κ.ο.κ. Δεν είναι απαραίτητη η γλώσσα για να «διαβάσεις» μια πόλη και τα σημάδια της. Η εσπεράντο των αισθήσεων σού δίνει το διαβατήριο για να το κάνεις, αρκεί να την ενεργοποιήσεις.

Ο μαγικός ρεαλισμός αποτελεί επίσης ένα ηλεκτροφόρο νεύρο μέσα στο βιβλίο: η φαντασία παρεισφρέει στην πραγματικότητα -την πιθανή πραγματικότητα- και τα δυο τους συγχέονται μέχρι που μπροστά στα μάτια σου μπορεί εύκολα να παίξει στο πανό προβολής μια εικόνα του Moebius στην οποία αισθάνεσαι πρωταγωνιστής.

Υπάρχει αισθητική στις αόρατες πόλεις του Καλβίνο, το γλαφυρό και το ποιητικό στοιχείο μόλις που ξεπροβάλλουν και αν αυτό τείνει να σε ενοχλήσει, για τους δικούς σου λόγους, δεν προλαβαίνει τελικά, γιατί στο γύρισμα της σελίδας, το κεφάλαιο έχει ήδη τελειώσει. Ο Καλβίνο έχει ήδη πει αυτό που ήθελε, σύντομα, αφήνοντάς σε να το συνεχίσεις εσύ εάν το θελήσεις, εάν έχεις πάρει το ερέθισμα.

Όλες οι πόλεις έχουν γυναικείο -ομολογουμένως πανέμορφο- όνομα. Δεν απέφυγα να κάνω τον συνδυασμό: πόλεις-γυναίκες που κρύβουν μυστικά, που καμουφλάρουν το μέσα τους, που δεν είναι αυτό που φαίνονται, που δε βρίσκεις την έξοδο αν θελήσεις να φύγεις.

Στο βιβλίο αυτό ο αναγνώστης περιδινίζεται, καταπίνεται κάτω από τη γη ή αιωρείται πάνω στον αέρα. Είναι ένα λοξό βιβλίο που ίσως δεν τελειώνει ποτέ, όπως οι πόλεις αναπτύσσονται αέναα, είτε στρεβλά είτε σοφότερα. Μένει ίσως να παραμένουμε παρόντες και επαγρυπνούντες για να «διαβάζουμε» κάθε φορά τη νέα μεταμόρφωση.

Μέσα στην κατάσταση στέρησης της καραντίνας, προσωπικά μπήκα κυριολεκτικά στην πρίζα και η τροφοδοσία ενός φανταστικού ταξιδιού ξεκίνησε.

This book was magic for me. Read it as part of an English class in college and have since the read every Italo Calvino book because of this one. Reading this book was like experiencing an MC Escher drawing for the first time (I couldn't stop looking at it and wanted to examine it from every angle). The book also caused me to look at Marco Polo and Kublai Khan with a more open mind than what I'd learned about them in my history classes. They went from being one dimensional to fascinating figures whose flaws dominated their legacies but who were also full of dreams and adventure.

I only wish I could read this in Italian. Given the vastness of his imagination, I can only guess how much is lost in translation.

Marco Polo and Kublai Khan talk of cities Marco has visited.

Where to begin with this one? I thought the writing was beautiful. Calvino and his translator painted vivid pictures of various cities, each a seemingly magical realm with its own quirks. As Marco tells more and more stories, Kublai questions the nature of his empire.

Unfortunately, very little actually happens. While they are very well written, the individual city tales read almost like entries in a poet's travel journal. There's not really an actual story unless you consider an ongoing conversation between two historical figures a plot.

While I'm glad I read it and I thought the writing was masterful, I don't feel like gushing about this particular book. Three out of five stars.

n  “Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears, even if the thread of their discourse is secret, their rules are absurd, their perspectives deceitful, and everything conceals something else.”n

This is a collection of short stories about the cities which the narrator - Marco Polo - has visited. He tells them to Kublai Khan, who begins to question his own empire after hearing Marco's tales.

I once saw Invisible Cities called "prose poetry" and that seems like a fairly accurate description. It's a book made up of fragments - usually one or two pages at a time - each beautifully describing a different city. Lots of metaphors and gorgeous imagery that will take your breath away.

Unfortunately, though, beyond the writing I felt a little underwhelmed. Nothing actually happens and the short snippets, while beautiful, lead nowhere and seem a touch... pointless. It's definitely a book for those who read for the words themselves, not the story.

It's easy to describe what 'Invisible Cities' is not rather than what it is as it's really very difficult to ascertain which category it can be put into; it neither has a clear plot nor characters are developed as they normally are, it can't be called a novel or collection of stories, can't be put in any one genre since it surpasses so many; but still something extraordinary, something which can't be described in words, which can only be felt.

The book has loose dialogues between emperor- Kublai Khan and a Venetian explorer-Marco Polo, Polo is ordered to explore the empire of the Khan and to tell parables with which to regale the ageing, and frequently impatient conqueror with descriptions of every city he has visited on his long peregrinations through Kingdom of Kublai Khan.

The parables are surreal in nature and prose is very lyrical however I wonder how lyrical it would be in its original language. The book is divided into parables about fifty five imaginary cities which are categorized into eleven groups of memory, desire, sign, thin, trading, eyes, names, dead, sky, continuous and hidden.

Different groups are associated with different themes, as Cities & Memory stories are philosophical thought experiments about nostalgia, history; discarding old Memories which are formed through word of mouth and forming their own.
-"As this wave from memories flows in, the city soaks it up like a sponge and expands."
-"The city which cannot be expunged from the mind is like an armature, a honeycomb in whose cells each of us can place the things he wants to remember...."

At this point I feel It's not possible to review the book though I made a futile attempt; and the more I think about the book the more I feel I have to re-read it and then read it again.

However there is one thing which I can surely say about 'Invisible Cities'that it's 'A lucid dream: one which can be experienced and can't be described'.

In a way, this book is almost too good. I'm amazed that Calvino pulled off a work that so successfully blurs the lines between poetry, short fiction and novel, one that asks us as readers to expand our perception of what fiction is, and one that drums up such a sense of sweep and wonder while at the same time giving the puzzle-lover in me all sorts of room to play; it's a step above even masterpieces of gamesmanship like Pale Fire because Calvino hits so many of my intellectual and emotional buttons. At the same time, I don't think it's gotten credit for how radical of a break from tradition it is. Only a handful of works do that in the same way for me, and some of them have more canonical visibility than others - everyone reads Borges, Maggie Nelson and Amelia Gray these days, but someone has to plug Linh Dinh, Renee Gladman and Pamela Lu here, so it might as well be me. Most works don't even try for this level of virtuosity, let alone succeed; even the fat postmodern tomes I've sworn so much allegiance to, books that the press kits swear up and down rewrote the rules of the novel, still feel on a basic level like [i]novels[/i] to me, where this is a work of its own class. So that not only makes it the finest work under the postmodern umbrella and a strong candidate for the novel that'll inevitably usurp Infinite Jest as my favorite, but pretty much the best work of playful fabulism I've read, in that it's at once the most playful and one that instills the most wonder in me.

But you only get to pull that off once, and most people don't pull that off at all. Since all Calvino I've read prioritizes instilling of wonder, the book that instills the most wonder will inevitably rule roost, and in that respect even Cosmicomics is a distant second. Since this strikes me as by far the peak of Calvino's lifelong project, a book that hits notes the more-famous If on a Winter's Night a Traveler merely strains for, the rest of Calvino's work has been ruined for me, because I keep expecting him to take me where this book took me and keep finding myself not... there, you know? I wish I'd read a little more Calvino before I got here, because the rest of his work has, in a certain respect, been ruined for me by this one. It's still charming and funny and striking in its originality and intelligence, but it doesn't have the bottled-lightning effect that this book does.

Well, I guess that's what happens when you blow away your competition. You also outdo yourself, in a certain respect. But enough of that. I've read a lot of books, and some of them have outright faded from my memory. This one never will.