Unguided Tour

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bUNGUIDED TOUR/b

by Susan Sontag

A tourist city different from

any other.

Different from Florence.

Different from Siena.

Different from Rome.

Different from Athens.

Or Dubrovnik.

Because there's an imaginary kingdom

of which this city is the capital.

of which this city is the centre.

There was a very dear friend of mine,

an Argentinian film-maker in exile

who fled to save his skin.

As he was a journalist too.

And... hundreds of journalists

have been killed in Argentina

during the past few years.

So, I was talking to that friend

who's been living in Paris

for almost 7 years

and I asked him:

Can you imagine going back

to live in Argentina?

Provided that there's

a change of government.

Well, he replied

Certainly, I'd like to.

Often too.

But to really live there, you know...

Besides, Buenos Aires

is too far from...

And we, both together,

at the same time, exclaimed:

Venice.

Venice is a city that even the Italians

visit as if it were a foreign city.

As for foreigners...

There's every kind of foreigner.

Everyone brings their own homage.

Their own admiration.

Their curiosity.

Their anxiety.

Their complacency.

Their avidity.

Wishing to be in Venice.

Wishing for having been in Venice.

This place...

A certain devotion always

brings me back to this place.

I'm thinking about all the people

who have been here.

Good morning.

May I help you?

You don't know? - No, Madam.

I'm sorry. It's full, Madam.

What class, Madam?

Second-class.

You're welcome, Madam.

Yes. I'm so sorry.

Once I was standing next to

two Americans who were watching

Saint Mark's Basilica, spellbound.

The big triumphal arch.

Five portals.

The gold, statues and bas-reliefs.

At one point,

one turned to the other and said,

almost reluctantly,

What kind of church is this?

And after a long pause,

the other man replied:

I think that it's Catholic.

But we're not talking

about tourists such as these.

To these it's so easy

to feel superior.

For us.

Tourists of a different kind.

There's one kind of tourist.

And then there's

a special kind of tourist.

Attracted, above all, to Venice.

The melancholy tourist.

For that reason, a special tourist.

Predestined to Venice.

Venice is the capital of melancholy.

I went on a journey

to see beautiful things.

Change of scene.

A change of heart.

And do you know something?

- What?

They are always there.

But they won't be there for long.

I know.

And this is why I went.

To say good-bye.

When I'm travelling,

it's always to say good-bye.

Sunsets...

Leaning towers...

Tiled roofs.

Gates.

Wooden balconies.

Canals.

And one after the other,

the bridges' humps.

Move away from the window.

Please.

The sound of footsteps in Venice.

And Venetian shouts.

Every word here...

however articulated it may be...

always sounds like an appeal...

made over the sea.

Their names are scratched

at the bottom of the fresco.

Vandals!

Yes.

Their way of being present.

The most superb things

made by human beings

lowered to the level

of the things of nature.

Last Judgment.

We can't put away everything

in the museums.

There are no beautiful things

in your country?

No.

Yes.

Less.

Did you have guides on you? Maps?

Rubber boots?

I read the guides later on.

At home.

But you did go visit

the famous places?

Didn't you have

the perversity to neglect them?

Yes, I visited them.

As conscientiously as possible,

although protecting your ignorance.

I don't want to know

more than I already know.

I don't want to grow fond of

those places...

more than I already am.

Do you remember what you saw?

No. Not much.

- It's not true.

Of course. I remember everything.

It's always been this way.

I know all my future reactions.

I know all the words

that they will prounounce.

You should've taken me with you.

Instead...

Instead of him, you want to say?

Yes.

Obviously, I wasn't alone.

But we were quarrelling

almost all the time.

He obtuse.

Me unbearable.

You're going to catch a cold.

Drink this.

- I'm feeling fine.

Don't get angry.

Did you give Bruno a tip?

Forebodings.

On the cloister's wall...

A long, diagonal chink opened up.

The water level is rising.

The marble nose of the saint

is no longer aquiline.

But beautiful things are here.

They didn't disappear before us.

They are still here.

They're even trying to save them.

I'd like to preserve my...

First impression?

We can call it so.

- For God's sake!

Let's limit ourselves to real things.

I don't want to model

my intelligence with facts.

If you don't want to look at that picture,

look at me.

Death in Venice.

Venice is a city where it's easy

to think about death.

About memory.

Even the memories

which don't belong to us.

In memory.

One arrives in Venice with a heart

full of soothed memories.

One comes here to

look back on with regret.

One is allowed to do that... Here.

Here. He died here.

In this room.

On February 13th 1833.

Tell yourself 50 times a day.

I'm not a connoisseur.

I'm not a romantic wanderer.

I'm not a pilgrim.

So you say.

Were you happy sometimes?

Not only, despite everything.

Staying on the bridge at sunset.

Walking on the tessellated

floor of the basilica.

The splendour of the things.

Decrepitude.

Pathos.

Beauty.

Beatitude.

You send postcards

with beatitude written on them.

Remember?

You sent one to me too.

I do remember.

Don't interrupt me.

Let's visit the church,

if it's not closed.

Let's visit the cemetery.

Let's go see the regatta.

There's a concert at La Fenice.

How do you decide where to go?

By playing roulette with my memory.

It's always this way.

At first, I'm not so impressed.

But afterwards...

After a few days...

I'm in tears.

I can't love a past trapped in

my memories like a souvenir.

There's always something ineffable

in the past.

Don't you think so?

In all its original glory.

Indispensable legacy

of a cultured woman.

You're making a fool of me.

- No...

I'm making a fool of myself.

I should be grateful.

So we agree?

I don't consider devotion to the past

as a form of snobbery.

It's just one of the most devastating

forms of unrequited love.

Attention.

Will the cemetery priest please

go to the sixteenth enclosure.

Will the cemetery priest please

go to the sixteenth enclosure.

Attention.

Three workmen to enclosure n.8.

Three workmen to enclosure n.8.

It is said that a trip is a great

opportunity to restore a bruised love.

Or rather, the worst.

With feelings similar to pieces of shrapnel

half-extracted from a wound.

Opinions.

And the rivalry of opinions.

Desperate love practices in the hotel

during the golden, summery afternoons.

Room service.

But you used to be so full of hope.

Prisons and hospitals

brim over with hope.

But not charter planes

and exclusive hotels.

Yes?

What do you like, Madame?

What do you need?

What do you need?

Yes... no, for a...

for the double room.

Yeah.

No, I'm sure, Madame.

The day after we are full up.

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