English

Platterland

I was in a Piranesi landscape—tumbled columns, grazing goats, distant shepherds and shepherdesses about their discreet businesses in a renaissance bosky dell. Giancarlo crouched before a tiny campfire, feeding it with sticks and what looked to be loose rubble. He had several weeks’ growth of beard. “Signore Twain?” He turned and saw that it was me. “Ah, you are back. I had hoped you might return. Good day. Or more appropriately, l’altro ieri, the day before yesterday. Or the week after today.” I moved in to warm myself at the fire. It was cold. “Your fire is not giving out much heat,” I said. “It is not a fire; it is a picture of a fire.” Giancarlo gestured toward the grazing goats. “Push one,” he said. I walked over to the little flock; no matter which way I tried to go, every-thing was sideways. “Push,” said Giancarlo. I pushed. The goat fell over. —Mark Twain in Milan from Platterland It was a real nice laying-out—tasteful. Well, maybe not so much tasteful particularly, but neat. They’d got Ed’s left arm attached to his head and not his shoulder. And they had the remaining right arm attached on the left side. To look like them, I supposed. —Platterland from Platterland

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