Marc Veldhuyzen, Contributor
It was one of those days where I had little to do and too much to think about, when I decided to do something rash and different to break the suffocating mundanity of my life. So I took a short walk down to the New York Public Library, picked out a random book from the shelf, found myself a secluded section of carpet to sit, and read the entire thing cover to cover.
From it I learned this, out of all of the novels where Marco Polo smokes pot with a Khan, this one is the best.
Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino is not a brilliant work of fiction, nor a classic to be remembered by generations to come. Yet it left a mark on me, maybe a small mark, but still something I feel will stick with me for the rest of my time in this life, which is more than I can say about the great Shakespearean classics we were all forced to read in 4th grade English class.
Invisible Cities, written by Italo Calvino. AMAZON.COM / COURTESY
It’s a story about the little people, you and I, and these larger than life figures, Kublai Khan and Polo. A story about the kick and surges of adventure, the beauties of simplicity, the strands of silk woven into the fragile webs of community. It’s a story about the highest and lowest concepts, of the greatest nature of this short existence and the basest pleasure of sex.
It’s also not a story, at least not by its most strict definition. It’s more of a recount of various travels. Polo describes to Kublai Khan, a successor warlord to Genghis Khan, thirteen cities with little relation or connection to each other. Places he’s maybe been, but more likely made up, imaginative fancies meant to entertain this distant conqueror who, with a breath could have his head cut off his shoulders. They begin cold at first, but as most people naturally do after long conversation, this warms until they get a sense of comfort in each other’s presence. They smoke with each other, Khan asks questions, gets more invested, curious and suspicious of Polo’s tales.
The cities he speaks of are all different and yet the same. I believe it is one city whose soul is split into thirteen pieces. Each piece is abstracted and described in a way separate from its others so that each element stands on its own. In this way, when they are all returned to the whole picture you get a chance to see it fully.
There are wonderful cities, where art and trade is open, where the people crafted all to showcase liveliness and purpose in all the places you can look. There are terrible cities where every face is unrecognizable, blank and empty. Where you only remember people when you’re looking at them and when you look away they die and are forgotten entirely.
It explores the fantastical nature of things when you break them down to their basest components. All of the places have a certain whimsy, a horror and an mundaneness to it. Each city is a star which makes up a wonderful galaxy.
This book doesn’t have a single plot to it. You will not find a relatable beginning to end story with concrete characters. Instead, it imbues an energy. An energy of appreciation, noticing things and taking them in. We live trapped in the body and time we were born into and from this limited perspective, appreciating this slice of the world we see is hard. This book helps me do that. It tells me stories about people, about their communities, about the things we make. It’s about the invisible experiences outside of us and the ones we create together.
It’s all very fantastical. It’s hard to read, but I will always appreciate it.