Fourteen degrees at 8am, fourteen degrees at 1pm. Damp. Santa Agata, on the hillside above Cannobio, drifts gently in and out of the fog.
Cannobio is full of candles and flowers, carried in the hands of rather elegantly-dressed people in the direction of the cimitero. All Souls is in full swing. As an English Protestant, I've come to prefer the Catholic All Souls to Hallowe'en and its Hollywood horror. Perhaps by going to the cemetery and reading the names of the dead who lie there, seeing their faces again, cleaning up and arranging things as we would in our own homes, we give them some measure of immortality.
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Tuesday 30 October 2007
A measure of immortality
Fourteen degrees at 8am, fourteen degrees at 1pm. Damp. Santa Agata, on the hillside above Cannobio, drifts gently in and out of the fog.
Cannobio is full of candles and flowers, carried in the hands of rather elegantly-dressed people in the direction of the cimitero. All Souls is in full swing. As an English Protestant, I've come to prefer the Catholic All Souls to Hallowe'en and its Hollywood horror. Perhaps by going to the cemetery and reading the names of the dead who lie there, seeing their faces again, cleaning up and arranging things as we would in our own homes, we give them some measure of immortality.
Cannobio is full of candles and flowers, carried in the hands of rather elegantly-dressed people in the direction of the cimitero. All Souls is in full swing. As an English Protestant, I've come to prefer the Catholic All Souls to Hallowe'en and its Hollywood horror. Perhaps by going to the cemetery and reading the names of the dead who lie there, seeing their faces again, cleaning up and arranging things as we would in our own homes, we give them some measure of immortality.
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