Until relatively recent history no one knew that across the Tigress and written on tablets of baked clay buried within a mound in Nineveh, in what is modern-day Iraq, lay the oldest written piece of literature on Earth.
My first memories belong to the surreal landscape of childhood. Cushioned in tenderness, they flicker a blurred reel of mango trees, mud pies and mosquito screens. Occasionally, through the fuzz, concrete moments come into focus. For me, the first of those is the imprint of a rainy afternoon in a library.
In the 17th century a steady stream of English gentry would don heavy linens, fill their wallets with Daddy’s money and make an educational rite of passage through Europe. The Hotel Palazzo Murat, nestled in the green culdera of Positano’s bosom is the sort of place they would end up, and so it seems, have […]