Author Archives: Erika Bizzarri

On two shelves within easy reach when I turn in for the night are two neat rows of paperbacks, one all yellow in keeping with the Italian word for a detective story – giallo, for that is what they are, the other the deep blue-black of the Sellerio publications. A few stragglers at either endContinue reading “Simenon, Camilleri, Donna Leon”

Some of my friends are resting on shelves in the guest room. While I can’t have my conversations with most of you at night, for you are rather hefty tomes, I hold most of you particularly dear. You, Rembrandt, are there in more books than one. In his Rembrandt’s Eyes, Simon Schama really understands youContinue reading “Rembrandt’s Eyes”

Books my mother had. Books when I was a child. Books my childrenlistened to. Books for my granddaughter. Somewhere I have Aesop’s fables in French where the crow loses hischeese to the fox and vanity. Of course there’s also the grasshopperand the ant, although I have always wanted to ask the ant if shedidn’t enjoyContinue reading “CHILDREN’S BOOKS – FAIRY TALES”

Now how did Dylan Thomas get involved. Good morning, I say and heanswers back. The book jacket is practically falling to pieces, butthe pages inside the hard cover, while yellowed, are all intact. I toolike it early in the morning I tell him. But my descriptions cannotcompare  with yours. Perhaps I can learn from you.Continue reading “Dylan Thomas”

My oldest most faithful friend. Oh dear. Where are you? I know where you were yesterday, before I decided to box the books to take to Orvieto. You were right there, almost at pillow height, next to Dylan Thomas. I empty out the box, scattering the books on the sheet of my unmade bed. IContinue reading “Poetry”

Ferragosto. Vacation time in Italy. I wonder was it any hotter along the Nile with Flalubert or Florence Nightengale in 1849? When I traveled through Italy in 1956 I was 27, and you, Florence, were 29 at the time of your travels. Should I have gone on to Egypt? Perhaps. But would I have feltContinue reading “FERRAGOSTO – FLAUBERT – FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE – JUDT”

Another day. Another hot hot day. Shall I seek refuge with my friends? Shall I invite them to a tea party? And who is to be invited? Perhaps nothing that requires mental strain – it’s just too hot. There’s The Little Prince with its many hidden meanings. Did you, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry., mean this storyContinue reading “ANOTHER DAY – SOLITUDE – WINNIE THE POOH – TRANSLATION”

Books. The company they keep. Each other and me. I lie in bed and know where this book and that book are. Will be a problem when I move to the apartment in Orvieto. And to think I had made a list of books with which shelf, which room, they were in.  I shall haveContinue reading “The Company They Keep”

The more I look at the books crowding my shelves, the more I think of them as books spawning other books, endlessly. Like the zebra clams, where one clam can propagate thousands. One book, one word, can lead to countless other words, countless other books, which in turn multiply. So I look at you, myContinue reading “Books”