“... When the Barocco came over the hill with its cerulean vaults and golden exhortations Otto in the tower took leave of his fleisch, attending to the rumble in the near beyond. Up the staircase of the Dolomites and along the length of the turquoise river, streaming in channels of differing hue, it bounded like a beach ball across the great passes, the summer pastures, flattening all that came before it, down the slopes, through woodland and paddock, coming to rest but a furlong from the thorned hedge of Otto and his forbears’ village, and there, sweating dew, matted with pine needles, grape mash, insects, rodents, all manner of grasses, like a vast, lopsided globe, opalescent, trembling, a planet unto itself, very like a planet, there it sat, a colossus, a visitation, blocking what remained of the afternoon light and emitting a kind of tuneful bleating, two parts piccolo, one, perhaps, trombone ...”

“... The river craft moves slowly upriver in the heart of Terra Magellanica,this forest land of earthquakes, hurricanes and volcanic eruptions,sitting low in the mud-coloured water, laden with its cargoof appoggiaturas, mordents, sarabandes, gavottes and trills,along with Domenico Zipoli in his black cassock, lately of Rome, Florence, Bolognaand Naples, scene of his famous contretemps with Scarlatti, père ...”

“... They follow you around the store, these power ballads, you and the women with their shopping carts filled with eggs, cookies, 90 fl.oz. containers of anti-bacterial dishwashing liquid, buffeting you sideways like a punishing wind. You stand, almost hypnotised, at the rosticceria counter staring at the braised lamb shanks, the patterns those tiny, coagulated rivulets of fat make, both knees about to go out from under you ...”

“... He looks eerily young, what’s left of him, purged, somehow, back into boyhood. It is difficult not to watch the movie on TV at the foot of his bed, 40ll colour screen, a jailhouse dolly psychodrama: truncheons and dirty shower scenes. I recognise one of the actresses, now a famous lesbian, clearly an early B-movie role. The black nurse says ‘Oh dear’ during the beatings ...”

“... Traveller’s Tales: Chapter 18 A southerly buster off of Bass Strait was raising whitecaps in the Bay and jittering the flags out across the plaza. We were sitting under the famous bare-ass portrait of Chloe. You know the one, in the old upstairs hotel bar, posh. So _______ says to me, he says . . . Wait a moment, you knew _______? Not well, acquainted-like, a snort, or two, or three, on the way home from the Culture Fair that day ...”

“... For Christopher Logue The talk-radio host is trying to shake the wacko with only a minute left to get in the finance and boner-pill spots before signing off, the morning news team already at the door and dairy vans streaming from the gates of WholesomeBest, fanning out across the vast plateau. Fair skies, high cumulus cloud – the birds are in full throat as dawn ignites in the east, rinsing the heavens with a coral pink ...”

“... A good lad, Christopher, a tad pensive, or watchful, for one so young.A bookworm too, if ever there was one: perhaps a career in lawor some sort of scholarly pursuit or other, but surely a hopeless fitfor the give and take of Fleet Street or the City or as an estate agent.Still, a well-behaved and temperate child, pleasant enough company,but just this very moment struggling, and failing, to squelch a giggle10,000 feet above the Persian Gulf in one of only eleven seatson a de Havilland 104 Dove, which will presently be passingover the rocky terrain, salt pans and limestone formations of Qatar,beginning its descent only fifteen minutes after having taken off,the hydraulic whine of the landing gear making ready to extend ...”

“... It was a lost dream, a bridges and heights and headed home dream, but too long, far too long and mazey and all the wrong tone. And then there was that station, so massive, with its tiers, platforms, girders and steps, trains rushing through on the express track, filled to bursting, commuters illuminated, each face vivid, highlighted – is that you? – exasperation, fatigue, concern at the time ...”

“... West An apocalyptic crack spreads like thunder over sintered gorges and alkali flats. The junco is knocked sideways then drops as if shot onto a granite bed, turning slowly mahogany there – wild peony. Somewhere in the bleached sky and cirrus a Phantom is at play, singeing cattle, lifting shingles off farmhouse roofs. An enormous ball of phosphorus bounds across the Carson Sink ...”

“... Retard Spoilage Animalcules heave their tackling, ladders of polysaccharides, onto meatmilkshrimp&creamy emulsions, sticking like putrefactive velcro. The refrigerator switches on in the darkness, a murmuring, perfervid sadhu close at hand. Turbidity, gases, a silky clouding over – gray slime spreads across hot dog casings, a sour reechiness transpires below ...”

“... Traveller’s Tales: Chapter 13 The bicycle paths of this Social Democracy are busy with pedallers, humourless and good, speeding down their privileged corridors, kinetic emblems of an enlightened state, efficient, compassionate, and on the go. Our visitor shuffles to the fine arts museum and sits there, mildly hungover, before the Delvaux, not one of his best, as if that really mattered, finding refuge in the moonlit porcelain breasts of the recumbent, homely maja, de maja van het noorden and the old locomotive that waits, steaming fitfully in the middle distance ...”

“... Micino I found under the tongue, when he opened wide, a harvest of minuscule Thai red peppers clustered either side of his pink frenulum, twin fields of fiery stalagmites. And as if that were not passing strange enough, behind and above two shelves of tiny Lucite drawers to my alarm one of which you chose to open and examine closely in its moist mucosa casing before gently replacing it, and without consequence as to structure or disquiet on sleeping Micino’s part, I suppose given our past history of how routinely I would pry open his jaws to massage his gums, then run my finger along his sharp, serried molars, those 12 incisors, rub up and down both fangs between forefinger and thumb, then for luck tap the tips of both as I made to take leave of that warm portal and carry my attentions elsewhere, first stroking his flanks, then, discreetly, his belly, and tickling behind both his ears ...”

“... Thass me, your jibber-jabbering Sulawesi booted macaque, most amused to be braining rodents with fig buds from up high, near the tippy top branch of my tuq-tuq tree, and that’s no lie, when you passed by below wearing I forget now which look. You gazed up and smiled, sweet-like: ‘Why not c’mon on down, Joe?’ How’d you get onto all that? And we’re talking not just ‘Joe’ but the local macaque lingo ? No one else could possibly know but Mommy Catawba and Sorella-si, who’d prefer not to – know ...”

“... Traveller’s Tales: Chapter 12 The cruise ship heads out of the harbour before dark in the direction of Point Blanco and the sea beyond, the din from the convent playground below having subsided and the sickle moon making ready to take up its post beside Venus and Jupiter, aligned this month, and on display above the flood-lit cathedral. They erupt like cicada whirr, like starlings exploding from a tree at any sudden sharp sound, dozens of three-year-olds in grey smocks pouring from their captivity at end of day, nuns chasing after them in their winged cornettes, herding them the way border collies herd sheep ...”

“... Rain a cab you Standing there on the sidewalk, in the dark The gathering thrum as the city awakens A field of clouds below Below the clouds the sea On the screen overhead a movie Across the great city They are moving, the two of them The freeways nearly empty In pursuit, being pursued Down ramps, among warehouses A girl in jeopardy A beautiful young woman in jeopardy Before dawn, before the city awakens On wet streets The melting greens and reds of traffic lights A cinematographer’s trick with a lens An access road, the belly Of a jet, so low overhead You can read, within its logo A message: Why am I here? Who are you? Because you chose to be here I am who I appear to be Across the great city No, not that one, another They are moving Not those two, we Not you and I A friend and me, on foot – Am I not a friend? We are moving slowly You can track us from on high An aerial shot Moving across the plaza The river to our left, winding As it does to the Bay And the giant tower, the sleek green tower Ahead of us and to the right Six miles above Godthåb The scent of you Blooms in the aftertaste Of the complimentary pretzels Helio, the deep Atlantic Titanium white, Iqualiut Cornerbrook a burnt umber The Labrador Sea cerulean It is impossible to find a cab When it rains like this Come back inside with me The lighting in the hotel lobby The black wood panelling and frosted lamps The darkness outside I recall this from somewhere I, other, outside this mise-en-scène A movie, perhaps – Who are you? Night: burnt umber mixed with ultramarine Cadmium moon Clouds a zinc white Quebec, on the screen overhead, green umber Ground speed: 1042 km/hr Weather at destination: windy Brick sky pastureland The train moves north from the city Viridian with burnt umber Prussian blue with raw sienna Oxide of chromium green with light red My friend there waiting, as always By his car at the station Ready to drive me back to his valley With its apron reefs of limestone Its rucks and folds, its ancient lows Terra verte/phthalocyanine green His cat and his piano – Am I not your friend, as well? – Hello ...”