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became discoloured and
gnawed like an old rag. It’s
full of mounds caused by
the livid germs of the plants
below. On the sides of the
road there are old merchant
houses, as well as several
houses built between the
wars, little villas once good
looking and modern. But
howweird! For each of them
has a monstrous appendix,
or just out of place, a fantasy
of an architect who seemed
to have designed one part
of the edifice in full daylight
and the other when he was
awoken in the middle of the
night, forced to design on
the sketch board in the light
of the full moon.
All the houses here have
round
windows
which
burn strongly at sunset. All
have wrought iron gates,
Art Nouveau stems with
orange, azure and light
purple stained glass pieces
flickering in between them.
They are all plastered with
calcio-vecchio blackened by
the passing of time. But half
the plaster on each façade
has fallen down. The wall
thus skinned shows its dusty
brick. There are gaps among
the bricks, there’s mortar
missing. Most windows have
no glass, they are covered
by yellowed newspapers in
tatters. Bizarre and rusty
ornaments extend from
the roofs like the stumps
of terrible cripples raised
towards the sky in reproach
and revolt. Crooked towers
and domes, vulgar cement
statues with broken faces,
clusters of pale pink painted
angels which look like a
procession of larvae. One of
the houses has a rampart,