This book took me much, much longer to read than I would have liked, simply because the trappings of life trapped me, and because Calvino's exquisite prose (and the Weaver/Parks/McLaughlin translation of it) isn't anything to speed through. My second time reading Calvino, actually- I was so entranced by "If on a winter's night a traveler" that I couldn't wait to get my grubby paws on this one. (That being said, I can't wait to get my grubby paws on another.)

What can I say? I loved every single story contained within. The text is rich and dynamic; few authors, I like to think, could accurately envision and describe the moon, new and granite, dripping from the sea into the sky in one vast, molten mass. Or, an old moon, dimming and broken, being removed from the sky with a crane in a world where any sort of oldness is Dealt With. Or, a retelling of the legend of Orpheus that doesn't feel stale, or even extended monologues about sitting in traffic that don't bore, because they're simply dripping with the sort of hyperauthentic humanity Calvino excels at writing.

It was almost painful to close this book after the last page. I felt as if I was leaving old Qfwfq behind.