A state of receptivity

Shirley Hazzard is a writer who has lived in and around Naples on and off for many years. She has a great quotation near the end of her book Dispatches from Naples I’d like to share:

“Like luck itself, Italy cannot be explained. We arrive, from modern cities and societies that have all the answers, armored with explanations. If we have any sense, we will for a time fall—not silent, but in a state of receptivity; for Italy, which harbors mysteries and arouses imagination, does not supply solutions. A sense of relief felt by visitors springs, rather, from being restored to unclassifiable experience: we are encouraged to stop defining life, and to live it.”

For me, the idea of “being restored to unclassifiable experience”—whether hiking in the Alps at dawn or just having a tickle war with Julie and Aryn—is that magic we seek. To stop or to look back and just wonder, mouth agape. The Christianese term of “blessing” comes nowhere close, though “abundance” does a little better, and “the glory of God” either cheapens the experience or cheapens God. But I wonder if this magical feeling isn’t very near the experience we’ll have when we do finally gaze upon God’s glory, if not the very Thing itself. I imagine quite a bit more terror in that, our final act.

So therefore I am now striving for a state of receptivity. I’m fortunate to have a “varsity” tour guide. I’m seeing parts of Naples already that most people who live here never see. If I can ever find my way back, I’ll take you there sometime. Piazza Dante. Near the art institute.

“Through that doorway and to the left is a very good vegetarian restaurant,” Paul says offhand. “So if you ever have visitors who are vegetarians, you can take them there.”

“Wow,” comments his friend, who has also lived in Vomero for nearly two years, “that’s varsity knowledge, man.”

“Couldn’t they just have pizza Margharita?” I wonder. It’s the native pizza to Naples. I had an amazing one at Caprese the other night. It’s very simple, tomatoes, mozzarella cheese and a bit of basil. But the Campania mozzarella is worth whatever you paid to get here, and “just” is never an appropriate word to accompany a local pizza Margharita.

The cab took us through the Spanish Quarter (where the Spanish troops lived during one of Naples’ innumerable occupations these past 3000 years), and the stars were blotted out in the narrowest streets I’ve ever seen cars on. Wash hung from every window. I thought we’d snag sweaters and bras off the lines on both sides at once.

Paul opines, “If Naples would gets its act together, clean up a little bit, it could be a bigger draw than Florence or Rome. It has at least as much to offer. Maybe more.”

I’d agree. But we both know that’s not likely. It will remain undiscovered, feared or scorned by people not forced to explore it by proximity. That’s fine by me. I’ll be here for the next few years. Receiving.