Letter from Abroad

Venice in the Rain

The weather could not last. It was too much like rolling seven thirty times straight—though just as one sometimes does in a mad dice game, we had got to feeling that we were in command, that a great cosmic readjustment had taken place in which mind finally triumphed over matter: for just as long as we willed it, the sun would shine, and the dice roll to a stop at seven. And then we hit Venice. Thirty days of brilliant sun and moderate airs, from Tangier to Seville, Granada, Madrid, Lisbon, Barcelona, Rome, Naples, Florence, and then, stepping into the launch at the Grand Canal, we hugged our coats about us, and ducked quickly under the canvas awning to shield our faces from the icy rain and blustering wind.

About the Author

William F. Buckley Jr.

William F. Buckley Jr. founded National Review magazine in 1955.

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William F. Buckley Jr.

Venice in the Rain

The weather could not last. It was too much like rolling seven thirty times straight—though just as one sometimes does in a mad dice game, we had got to feeling that we were in command, that a great cosmic readjustment had taken place in which mind finally triumphed over matter: for just as long as we willed it, the sun would shine, and the dice roll to a stop at seven. And then we hit Venice. Thirty days of brilliant sun and moderate airs, from Tangier to Seville, Granada, Madrid, Lisbon, Barcelona, Rome, Naples, Florence, and then, stepping into the launch at the Grand Canal, we hugged our coats about us, and ducked quickly under the canvas awning to shield our faces from the icy rain and blustering wind.