Stopping to breathe a moment, he tried to recover from the wonderful notions with which the city assaulted him.
He came to the piazza of festivities. Even at night he could hear all the celebrations of the distant ages that the stones and fountains and silent buildings gave out in their dreaming. He wandered through the piazza’s memories of pageants and histories and festivals. The piazza, in its silence, seemed always to be in a carnival mood, seemed always to be laughing.
In the city everything remembers, and freely yields its memories like certain flowers in moonlight.