So is (was) Newpest, and Milisport, and Bay City, and Contendta and Saeyda, and the others he can't or won't remember. For spending so much time in the places, Kovacs would like to label himself a creature of cities as well. But cities have never been his mother, and his mother was always too distracted in her kindness to truly garnish the comparison with sweetness. When a man kills his father, he is son to no one, and what of mothers?
Characters in these stories never have mothers, dummy.
Venice is a city. Kovacs is cleared from the anthropomorphic urge, so he does not see a strong woman stretched out on rooftops, or a paternal naval power waiting in the bay. Kovacs is a people-watcher, his triumph and his sorrow, and he sees their bustle. Some happy, some haggard, beggars and brutes, maidens and militiamen, faces he recognizes through race and dress and time. They are alive. They make the city around them-- open rooftops promising nothing but their continued existence, and some not even that-- alive.
There is no answer that will satisfy Ezio. It's his dream, and Kovacs is no dreamer. He steps through the illusion, tentative for half a moment, before his pace breaks into a fool's run. Catch me if you can.
no subject
So is (was) Newpest, and Milisport, and Bay City, and Contendta and Saeyda, and the others he can't or won't remember. For spending so much time in the places, Kovacs would like to label himself a creature of cities as well. But cities have never been his mother, and his mother was always too distracted in her kindness to truly garnish the comparison with sweetness. When a man kills his father, he is son to no one, and what of mothers?
Characters in these stories never have mothers, dummy.
Venice is a city. Kovacs is cleared from the anthropomorphic urge, so he does not see a strong woman stretched out on rooftops, or a paternal naval power waiting in the bay. Kovacs is a people-watcher, his triumph and his sorrow, and he sees their bustle. Some happy, some haggard, beggars and brutes, maidens and militiamen, faces he recognizes through race and dress and time. They are alive. They make the city around them-- open rooftops promising nothing but their continued existence, and some not even that-- alive.
There is no answer that will satisfy Ezio. It's his dream, and Kovacs is no dreamer. He steps through the illusion, tentative for half a moment, before his pace breaks into a fool's run. Catch me if you can.