On Italy, on Love, a Keatsian letter never sent

I love this blog.

a love letter to rome

I write to you from Italy. It’s where I belong, if I belong anywhere in this world. I should be writing this in Italian, that beautiful language… the language of Dante, and poetry, and of the maestros, but I’ve mastered one language only, English. Mastered it with the devotion of a life long lover who never grows bored. Such is my devotion to Italia itself. To the stories of Italy, to the soil, the sun, the gleaming stripped marble of ruins, the art, the hum of life for centuries still playing in stone.

(film still)

Love and Italy are entwined for me. But love for a place feels less dangerous than love for another soul. What is it about love more than any other sensation or state that makes it worth dying for for nearly everybody? Is it the intoxication? Is it that danger of falling; first in…

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Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

5 thoughts on “On Italy, on Love, a Keatsian letter never sent”

      1. It’s not possible to escape the down days, is it? Outsiders assume you must be walking around with a cheesy grin of satisfaction on your face because you live in or visit some idyllic location. Not true. Sometimes I think the closer you get to your dream the harder it is to stay euphoric for any length of time.

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