the world has always been on fire

As the lyrics to the Alicia Keys's song that I make up when I sing it go, "This world is on fire!" I'm not original in thinking that – or saying it. It has been said millions of times throughout every age of human existence. Reading dead writers and thinkers – Plato, Bede the Venerable, Melville – reminds me, and reassures me, that there is nothing new under the sun (which was stated three millennia ago in Ecclesiastes) and that this fire has not just started. Italo Calvino is one such writer to write about it.

Once I discovered Calvino's work, I never looked back. I've become obsessed. He pays close attention to things and frequently jettisons traditional narrative structure in order to present something wholly original, and wholly Calvino. I will likely recommend more than a few of his novels, short stories, and essays in future newsletters, but I'm going to start with Invisible Cities from 1972. (The worn copy pictured above that I keep requesting from the Carnegie Library every few months shows the wear and tear, and thumbprints, of the book's many readers throughout the decades since its publication. There are other readers out there reading Calvino! I request it over and over again because I refuse to buy a new copy and I have not had the luck of coming across a copy in a used bookstore yet. One day!)

The short novel consists of a casual conversation between the older Kublai Khan and the younger Marco Polo that acts as a framing device for 55 prose poems in which Polo describes make-believe cities to Khan. The descriptions of the fantastical cities can be read as commentary on different facets of human existence: culture, language, death. Khan, who states that his own kingdom is rotting "like a corpse in a swamp," tells Polo that he knows the cities in his tales do not exist and asks why he still talks about them. Polo explains: "This is the aim of my explorations: examining the traces of happiness still to be glimpsed, I gauge its short supply. If you want to know how much darkness there is around you, you must sharpen your eyes, peering at the faint lights in the distance."

Optimism in the face of darkness and fire. That's what Calvino's works provide for me. They're reflective, but also a nonviolent call to arms. Though things be, or feel, grim – like they are, and do, in this day and age – he reminds me in many ways that I still have a choice in it all. It matters where I look and what I look for. Companies and politicians know this, so I must know this. Which brings me to the final paragraph of the novel: the kicker. In starting this newsletter, I reflected on the final paragraph of Invisible Cities many times. It's why I'm doing this, here, now. When chatting with other creators, I mention this paragraph. When hosting a workshop or giving a guest lecture, I share this paragraph. People have asked me to repeat it. To write it down for them. To remind them of the name of the book so they could seek it out. So, I'll happily share it again:

And Polo said: "The inferno of the living is not something that will be; if there is one, it is what is already here, the inferno where we live every day, that we form by being together. There are two ways to escape suffering it. The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become such a part of it that you can no longer see it. The second is risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the midst of the inferno, are not inferno, then make them endure, give them space."

What Marco Polo suggests is the exact opposite of the meme with the dog surrounded by fire saying "everything is fine." Everything is not fine. But that doesn't mean we have to cave to pessimism. It is a call to optimism. It gives me hope and leads me to keep recommending people and works that I see as "not inferno" so that I can give them space and possibly aid in their endurance. Live on, Calvino. Live on.

Side note: An operatic adaptation of Invisible Cities was staged in Los Angeles' Union Station by The Industry while the historic train station was still open to travelers and tourists, which makes for some interesting visuals. I'll park a link to the trailer for it here –

indoor animal is curated by a human: Tim Papciak.  On Mondays, he shares one link to one music video to help spark creativity in other creative types. On Thursdays, he recommends a book, movie, show, art piece, or link to some dusty corner of the internet that he believes either 1.) adds to the human experience, or 2.) serves as a coping mechanism in the year 2025. Note: this is not, and never will be, self-help content.