May 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
I have recently tried to find in Syracuse a certain old tavern where I had once had so much fun with a bunch of Italian and German sailors, drinking this very moscato, and another wine, dry, light, after which one dances so well. Perhaps this was the wine used in celebrations in honor of Dionysus, when even the fauns danced. But I was unable to find that winery, nor even that small square, and now it seems to me that perhaps this whole story with moscato di Siracusa, with wine siphoned directly from the barrel, with music played in the street and sailors dancing in the greying dusk – perhaps I have dreamt it, or imagined it, or perhaps it had never happened.
And this is terrible in traveling, that everything is so very brief that it is sometimes hard to figure out what was dream and what was reality, what is imagination and what is an actual memory of facts.
[The notion of Iwaszkiewicz dancing drunkenly in the street with a bunch of Italian and German soldiers, in the greying dusk of Syracusa seems so preposterous, so out of keeping with every surviving photo of this properly but uncomfortably dressed, insecure, awkward, ugly man (hence the reference to dancing fauns – himself – who otherwise never dances) that it is hard not to assume that he had imagined the whole thing, perhaps dreamt it. One man’s longing to be something else than what he is; to be otherwise; how very touching.]