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“So... Italian gelato. Take the deliciousness of a regular ice-cream cone, times it by a million, then sprinkle it with crushed-up unicorn horns.”
― Jenna Evans Welch, Love & Gelato

“Hey what's the matter? Are you crying?"
I shook my head, slowly opening my eyes and smiling at him again. "No, it's nothing."
But it wasn't nothing. I didn't want to ruin the moment by explaining to him, but suddenly it was like I had a zoomed-out view of this moment and I never, ever (ever) wanted it to end. I had Nutella on my face and my first real love sprawled out next to me and any minute the stars were going to sink back into the sky in preparation for a new day, and for the first time in a long time, I couldn't wait for what the day would bring.
And that was something.”
― Jenna Evans Welch, Love & Gelato

“Tonight I watched the sun set at Ponte Vecchio. I think its safe to say I have finally found the place that feels right to me. I just can't believe I had to come halfway across the world to find it.”
― Jenna Evans Welch, Love & Gelato

“Broke your jaw once before
Spilt your blood upon the floor
You broke my leg in return
So let's sit back and watch the bed burn
Well love sticks sweat drips
Break the lock if it don't fit
A kick in the teeth is good for some
A kiss with a fist is better than none”
― Florence Welch

“Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur michi.”
― Dante Alighieri, La vita nuova

“…”The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don’t suppose it will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friends of Mr. Vyse’s. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerest people! For our part we liked them, didn’t we?�� He appealed to Lucy. “There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets and filled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who have failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine’s great stories. ‘My dear sister loves flowers,�� it began. They found the whole room a mass of blue �� vases and jugs �� and the story ends with ‘So ungentlemanly and yet so beautiful.�� It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect those Florentine Emersons with violets.”��”
― E.M. Forster, A Room with a View

“There was a pleasantness to the air and a spirit about the town that did not come from its color, but from some inner, tasty citrus quality. It made Alexia wonder fancifully if cities could have souls.”
― gail carriger, Blameless

“Imagine a pair of woman’s lips,�� Mogor whispered, “puckering for a kiss. That is the city of Florence, narrow at the edges, swelling at the center, with the Arno flowing through between, parting the two lips, the upper and the lower. The city is an enchantress. When it kisses you, you are lost, whether you be commoner or king.”
― Salman Rushdie, The Enchantress of Florence

“If you deconstruct Italy, you will in the end see a grapevine, a tomato and a small boy hammering a shard of marble.”
― Pietros Maneos

“Even a magnificent city such as Florence becomes more intriguing if there is a demon at work in the alleys.”
― Chris Bohjalian, The Light in the Ruins

“So often have I studied the views of Florence, that I was familiar with the city before I ever set foot within its walls; I found that I could thread my way through the streets without a guide. Turning to the left I passed before a bookseller's shop, where I bought a couple of descriptive surveys of the city (guide). Twice only was I forced to inquire my way of passers by, who answered me with politeness which was wholly French and with a most singular accent; and at last I found myself before the facade of Santa Croce.
Within, upon the right of the doorway, rises the tomb of Michelangelo; lo! There stands Canova's effigy of Alfieri; I needed no cicerone to recognise the features of the great Italian writer. Further still, I discovered the tomb of Machiavelli; while facing Michelangelo lies Galileo. What a race of men! And to these already named, Tuscany might further add Dante, Boccaccio and Petrarch. What a fantastic gathering! The tide of emotion which overwhelmed me flowed so deep that it scarce was to be distinguished from religious awe. The mystic dimness which filled the church, its plain, timbered roof, its unfinished facade �� all these things spoke volumes to my soul. Ah! Could I but forget...! A Friar moved silently towards me; and I, in the place of that sense of revulsion all but bordering on physical horror which usually possesses me in such circumstances, discovered in my heart a feeling which was almost friendship. Was not he likewise a Friar, Fra Bartolomeo di San Marco, that great painter who invented the art of chiaroscuro, and showed it to Raphael, and was the forefather of Correggio? I spoke to my tonsured acquaintance, and found in him an exquisite degree of politeness. Indeed, he was delighted to meet a Frenchman. I begged him to unlock for me the chapel in the north-east corner of the church, where are preserved the frescoes of Volterrano. He introduced me to the place, then left me to my own devices. There, seated upon the step of a folds tool, with my head thrown back to rest upon the desk, so that I might let my gaze dwell on the ceiling, I underwent, through the medium of Volterrano's Sybills, the profoundest experience of ecstasy that, as far as I am aware, I ever encountered through the painter's art. My soul, affected by the very notion of being in Florence, and by proximity of those great men whose tombs I had just beheld, was already in a state of trance. Absorbed in the contemplation of sublime beauty, I could perceive its very essence close at hand; I could, as it were, feel the stuff of it beneath my fingertips. I had attained to that supreme degree of sensibility where the divine intimations of art merge with the impassioned sensuality of emotion. As I emerged from the porch of Santa Croce, I was seized with a fierce palpitations of the heart (that same symptom which, in Berlin, is referred to as an attack of nerves); the well-spring of life was dried up within me, and I walked in constant fear of falling to the ground.
I sat down on one of the benches which line the piazza di Santa Croce; in my wallet, I discovered the following lines by Ugo Foscolo, which I re-read now with a great surge of pleasure; I could find no fault with such poetry; I desperately needed to hear the voice of a friend who shared my own emotion (��)”
― Stendhal, Rome, Naples et Florence

“Still holding me close, she whispered into my ear, “But you know what, Soph? Italy is my destiny; it calls to me to return home.”
― Melissa Muldoon, Dreaming Sophia

“There are many of us who live alongside others, less fortunate, watching them go through everyday suffering for one reason or another, and we’re not moving even our little finger to help them. It’s in human nature, unfortunately: for the most part, the only people we genuinely care about are ourselves. However, once in a while we encounter different species, different kind of human beings among us: full of compassion, willing and wanting to help, and doing so with joy and happiness. Those are a rarity. But you know what, my dear? Being one of them is not a special calling- it’s a choice. So what will you choose, huh?”
― Yoleen Valai, The Rebirth of Francesca

“Leave all your love and your longing behind, you can't carry it with you if you want to survive.”
― Florence Welch and Isabella Summers

“I’m considering keeping the shutters open, even if people are spying on me at night from the apartment across the street. Especially if they are spying on me. It makes me feel less alone. I have a mental camaraderie with that imaginary person and their imaginary gaze. I find myself performing myself for them and exaggerating my facial expressions so they can see me more clearly, like actors project their voices on stage. I’m miming myself.”
― Jalina Mhyana

“Now we're going to one of the coolest places in Florence."
"Where's that?"
"A pharmacy."
"You're taking the princess to a drugstore?"
"I said a pharmacy. Climb on."
Profumo Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella is a pharmacy only in the ancient sense of the word. As soon as I saw and smelled what "pharmacy" it was, I recognized it as the origin of the exquisitely wrapped, handcrafted soaps, colognes, potpourris, and creams I had seen in their shop on New York's Lower East Side. But nothing could compare with seeing them in the frescoed chapel where thirteenth-century Dominican friars had first experimented with elixirs and potions. Centuries-old apothecary jars and bottles sat on the shelves of carved wooden cupboards that swept almost to the top of a high, vaulted ceiling. I walked slowly around the room, taking it all in, as Danny spoke to a smartly dressed salesgirl.
"What an incredible place!" I sighed, walking over to stand beside him. "It's so beautiful."
"Pretty special," he agreed, putting his hand high on my back and turning to the salesperson. "I think mimosa," he told her.
"A very good choice, I think," she said, dabbing a small amount of mimosa eau de cologne on my wrist and then my neck with a delicate applicator.
Danny bent forward so he could smell my neck, then stood back. He drew his eyebrows together and put his hands on his hips. "I definitely think that's you. First, you get this oddly enticing tart kick, then you detect the sweetness. It's a subtle sweetness- not overpowering, but definitely there."
"Hilarious," I said sarcastically and kicked him playfully in the shin.
"Then you get the kick again," he winced, rubbing his leg.”
― Nancy Verde Barr, Last Bite

“Florence is actually a very fateful city. Often one has a sense of Florence answering one back, if you know what I mean.”
― glenn haybittle, The Atelier

“...Atina gibi, Floransa gibi küçük bir site devletinin ileri gelen bir vatandaşının kendini önemli bir kişi gibi hissetmesi o kadar zor olmazdı. O zamanlarda dünya evrenin merkezi, insanoğlu da yaratılışın amacıydı; o çağda yaşayan insan ise kendi sitesinin en mükemmel insanları barındırdığını, kendisinin ise, kendi sitesinin en mükemmel insanları arasında olduğunu düşünebiliyordu. Bu durumda Aeskilos ya da Dante, kendi sevinç ya da üzüntülerini ciddiye alabilirdi. Aeskilos da, Dante de, tek tek insanların duygularının önem taşıdığı ve trajik olayların ölümsüz şiirle yüceltilmeye layık olduğu inancını besleyebilirdi. Halbuki modern insan, bahtsızlığa uğradığı zaman, kendini istatistik toplamın bir parçası gibi hisseder; geçmiş ve gelecek onun önünde, saçma ve önemsiz yenilgilerin meydana getirdiği ürkütücü alaylar halinde uzar. İnsanoğlunun kendi de, sonsuz sessizlikler arasında kısa bir süre için bağırıp çağıran, yaygaralar koparan az çok saçma, çalımlı bir hayvan gibi görünür. Kral Lear, "Gerekli ihtiyaçları sağlanmamış insan, zavallı, çıplak, oklanmış bir hayvandan farksızdır," der ve bu fikir alışılmamış bir şey olduğundan onu deliliğe sürükler. Ne var ki, bu fikir modern insan için alışılmış bir şeydir ve onu sadece saçmalığa sürükler...”
― Bertrand Russell, In Praise of Idleness and Other Essays

“¿Por qué te enamora mi faz de tal suerte que no te vuelves hacia el hermoso jardín que florece bajo los rayos de Cristo? Allí están la rosa en que el Verbo divino encarnó; y allí están los lirios por cuyo aroma se descubre el buen camino.”
― Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, Volume III: Paradiso, Part 2: Commentary

“Dante Alighieri wrote his first book in the prosimetrum genre �� La Vita Nuova �� in 14th century Florence. Since I’m compiling this collection �� my first indie publication �� in Florence, just blocks from Dante’s house, and since his book involves a lost love, and ‘A New Life,�� I thought it fitting to emulate this style in my own casual, intuitive fashion. My hope is that the juxtaposition of poems, journal entries, essays and prose will create a story; a memoir in anarchistic vignettes.”
― Jalina Mhyana, Dreaming in Night Vision: A Story in Vignettes

“[Е]сли знаешь, куда смотреть, Флоренция ничем не хуже небес [271].”
― Dan Brown, Inferno

“I was scarcely the first, nor the only current, girl of impressive derivation to be unceremoniously thrust through the iron gate at the entrance of Le Murate by parents whose aspirations for their daughters did not include marriage. Our paths to the convent were varied, but no matter. We all wound up in the same habit.”
― Kelsey Brickl, Paint

“He was an indecent man, I told myself - prayerfully - and then I prayed for him to become decent.”
― Kelsey Brickl, Paint

“It was almost Christmas, and Renzo was preparing all the delicacies Florentines must eat at the festival: roast eels, goose, fancy cakes with marzipan frills, and a kind of minced pie they call Torta di Lasagna, stuffed with meats and raisins and nuts.”
― Martine Bailey, An Appetite for Violets

“Opera was born in Florence at the end of the sixteenth century. It derived almost seamlessly from its immediate precursor, the intermedio, or lavish between-the-acts spectacle presented in conjunction with a play on festive occasions. Plays were spoken, and their stage settings were simple: a street backed by palace facades for tragedies, by lower-class houses for comedies; for satyr plays or pastorals, the setting was a woodland or country scene. Meanwhile the ever-growing magnificence of state celebrations in Medici Florence on occasions such as dynastic weddings gave rise to a variety of spectacles involving exuberant scenic displays: naval battles in the flooded courtyard of the Pitti Palace, tournaments in the squares, triumphal entries into the city. These all called upon the services of architects, machinists, costume designers, instrumental and vocal artists. Such visual and aural delights also found their way into the theater—not in plays, with their traditional, sober settings, but between the acts of plays. Intermedi had everything the plays had not: miraculous transformations of scenery, flying creatures (both natural and supernatural), dancing, singing. The plays satisfied Renaissance intellects imbued with classical culture; the intermedi fed the new Baroque craving for the marvelous, the incredible, the impossible. By all accounts, no Medici festivities were as grand and lavish as those held through much of the month of May 1589 in conjunction with the marriage of Grand Duke Ferdinand I and Christine of Lorraine. The intermedi produced between the acts of a comedy on the evening of May 2 were considered to be the highlight of the entire occasion and were repeated, with different plays, on May 6 and 13. Nearly all the main figures we will read about in connection with the birth of opera took part in the extravagant production, which was many months in the making: Emilio de' Cavalieri acted as intermediary between the court and the theater besides being responsible for the actors and musicians and composing some of the music; Giovanni Bardi conceived the scenarios for the six intermedi and saw to it that his highly allegorical allusions were made clear in the realization. Jacopo Peri and Giulio Caccini were among the featured singers, as was the madrigal composer Luca Marenzio, who wrote the music for Intermedio 3, described below. The poet responsible for the musical texts, finally, was Ottavio Rinuccini, who wrote the poetry for the earliest operas...”
― Piero Weiss, Opera: A History in Documents

“There were the subtle malts and brans of the crust and the pallid no-taste of good old Florentine bread. The snaking sour-sweet of the beef, like a slab of porphyry shot through with crystalline onion sugars, salt and soil-rolled toffee carrots; sparks of bitter thyme and mint oils; the velvet honeycomb of fat;”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“And then I understood: only then, sipping nettle soup, tasting the green shoots, the force of life itself that had pushed the young nettles up through paving stones, cobbles, packed mud. Ugolino had flavored his dishes with this. With everything: our food. The steam that drifted, invisible, through the streets. The recipes, written in books or whispered on deathbeds. The pots people stirred every day of their lives: tripe, ribollita, peposo, spezzatino, bollito. Making circles with a spoon, painting suns and moons and stars in broth, in battuta. Writing, even those who don't know their letters, a lifelong song of love.
Tessina dipped her spoon, sipped, dipped again. I would never taste what she was tasting: the alchemy of the soil, the ants which had wandered across the leaves as they pushed up towards the sun; salt and pepper, nettles; or just soup: good, ordinary soup.
And I don't know what she was tasting now, as the great dome of the cathedral turns a deeper red, as she takes the peach from my hand and steals a bite. Does she taste the same sweetness I do? The vinegar pinpricks of wasps' feet, the amber, oozing in golden beads, fading into warm brown, as brown as Maestro Brunelleshi's tiles? I don't know now; I didn't then. But there was one thing we both tasted in that good, plain soup, though I would never have found it on my tongue, not as long as I lived. It had no flavor, but it was there: given by the slow dance of the spoon and the hand which held it. And it was love.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“You are driving me into such a state of despair that no hour of the day passes when I do not desire your death and wish that you were hanged. What aggravates me most of all is that we shall both go to the devil and then I shall have the torment of seeing you even there. I swear by what I loathe above all �� that is yourself �� that I shall make a pact with the devil to enrage you and to escape your madness. Enough is enough. I shall engage in any extravagance I so wish in order to bring you unhappiness. If you think you can get me to come back to you, this will never happen, and if I did come back to you, beware! Because you would never die but by my hand.”
― Marguerite Louise d'Orléans

“U nekoj beskrajnoj nežnosti, koje muževe obuzima, posle dugog braka, prema ženi, ja čitam sa mojim beleškama, njeno pismo, kao odgovor na obećanje, da ću je čekati u Fiorenci.
Da još jednom vidimo Fiorencu.
Ona mi je pisala da još jednom svratimo u hotel “Aurora��. U Fijezoli.
Bili smo tako sretni kad je prvi put došla, kod mene, u Italiju.
Pita me da li se sećam pucnjave, u neredima, kad su napali Poštu? Kad su revolveri praštali. Kad je ona stala preda mnom i raširila preda me svoj laki, crni kaput, kao neki crni labud, na pozornici, u baletu.
Kjaramonti nikad nije hteo da poveruje u to.
Da li to taj poručnik veruje, ili ne, pisala mi je, nije važno.
Svaka bi žena, tvrdila je ona, kada bi volela, učinila to.
Za muškarca, pisala je, i kad voli, tako nešto, nije sasvim sigurno.
Pisala mi je da je odvedem da još jednom vidi Fiorencu.
Zaklonila me je tamo svojim telom, dok je pucnjava trajala, a ne mogu poreći, da je tako i bilo. Moram priznati da je tako bilo.
Ne traži od mene ništa za to.
Nije mi tražila ništa za to.
Sad mi, međutim, traži da još jednom svratimo u Fiorencu. Da se naselimo tamo gore, u Fijezoli, u našem hotelu.
Ja sam joj odgovorio da sam, poslom, nedavno, bio tamo. Nije priroda sad tamo ono, što je bila proletos. Nisu ni masline kao što su bile. Nebo nije plavo. Samo su čaršavi plavi u “Aurori��, i baru. U vrtu su čempresi sad u snegu.
Ona je odgovarala: svejedno.
Iako se čempresi crne �� dole, u dolini, u daljini, krovovi Fiorence biće ipak crveni, ponegde. Kube, koje toliko volim, ona voli još više. Više čak nego Mikelanđelovo. Brda će se i sad videti talasasto, kao što su i bila, kada smo poslednji put bili tamo. Uostalom, nije to što ona traži od mene, da još jednom sagledamo. Traži samo da još jednom sačekamo na balkonu hotela veče, tamo. Mrak će pasti rano. Nestaće, polako, Fiorence, u mraku. Neće se videti ni kampanil koji je nazidao Đoto. Nije ni potrebno. Ono što bi ona želela da vidi, još jednom, to je trenutak kad u zamračenoj Fiorenci upale svetiljke.
One, iznenada �� ona se toga seća �� blesnu. Sinu. Kao da neko zasipa zvezdama Fiorencu. Toliko svetiljki, a sinu u istom trenutku, i trepere. Kako je to bilo lepo.
Iako je sad zima, iako ima snega, to bi htela još jednom da vidi, pre nego što iz Italije odemo. Da joj učinim to. To bar nije teško.”
― Miloš Crnjanski, Kod Hiperborejaca II

“A POET'S HOMAGE TO FLORENCE
What heart dares to look upon a city so golden and is not moved to write a single line?
Whose soul can bear such beauty
and not praise it with all its words?
May there be poets without a page left, artists with no colour to give a memory of you; and even lovers who refuse to burn?
My love, your likeness is like marble that makes the altar of paradise.”
― Laura Chouette