![]() ![]() Or it was a book called “ Invisible Cities,” in which the Venetian merchant Marco Polo described to Kublai Khan the far-away lands of his empire, and, as you turned the pages, the spires and domes of unreal cities rose and fell before your eyes. ![]() It was a book called “ The Castle of Crossed Destinies,” about men and women who, having been mysteriously struck dumb, were using packs of tarot cards to describe the adventures that had befallen them. With your thumb, you flipped through the first few pages and, with the practiced efficiency of someone who never has enough time, you determined what the book was about. The author was Italo Calvino, whose name conjured up some vague impressions-an Italian who had risen to prominence after the Second World War, a writer of stories within stories. You reached for the book you had spotted. The other customers were leafing through books lifted from the great pyramids of new releases on the front table. Without thinking, you walked into the store. ![]() Your eye lingered on its pure-white cover and on a curious shape cut into it. But, not long ago, the sight of a particular book made you pause. ![]() You pass it on your walk to work in the mornings, and on your walk home in the evenings, and although you sometimes admire the clever geometries of its window display, rarely do you take a closer look. The bookstore in your neighborhood sits on a busy corner. ![]()
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