She dives in his pages, splaying herself at the bottom of each one, and the lines float her back to the light on the hill. In this town of tolling bells and doughy tourists, only his words can bridge the gap between what she sees and how to tell it.
My friend Leona was planning a trip to Italy, and one suitcase was reserved for books—ancient Latin authors she would read in their native landscape and in their native tongue.
