When I went to Venice I found that my dream had become-incredibly, but quite simply-my address.
When I went to Europe for the first time, I went to Paris and then to Venice. So after Paris, Venice was my first great European city, and it just blew me away.
This grossly advertised wonder [Venice], this gold idol with clay feet, this trompe-l'oeil, this painted deception, this cliche-what intelligent iconoclast could fail to experience a destructive impulse in her presence?
I had my dreams of Venice, but nothing that I had dreamed was as impossible as what I found.
Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
Underneath Day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls
Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go.
Venice, Italy, is one of my favorite cities, a place I've been lucky enough to visit twice.
If I could live in one city and do every single thing I do there, I would choose Venice. You can't turn your head without seeing something amazing.
He liked the fact that Venice had no cars. It made the city human. The streets were like veins, he thought, and the people were the blood, circulating everywhere.
Venice, that capital city of dream and intrigue, that double city (one above and seemingly solid, one below, wavering and reflected in the waters), which never disappoints.
In memory Venice is always magic.
My beautiful, my own My only Venice-this is breath! Thy breeze Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face! Thy very winds feel native to my veins, And cool them into calmness!
Venice, the most touristy place in the world, is still just completely magic to me.
Venice is beautiful, but like a Bergman movie is beautiful; you can admire it, but you don't really want to live in it.
The trouble is, walking in Venice becomes compulsive once you start. Just over the next bridge, you say, and then the next one beckons.
Venice is a cheek-by-jowl, back-of-the-hand, under-the-counter, higgledy-piggledy, anecdotal city, and she is rich in piquant wrinkled things, like an assortment of bric-a-brac in the house of a wayward connoisseur, or parasites on an oyster-shell.
