In my dream, Sicily was always covered in gold. Everything was gold: the golden Baroque cities glistening under the glowing sun of August, and far awa..., the gently rising mountains of Theocritus directing our gaze to Homer's wine-dark sea. Now when I look back at myself at the age of fifteen, I recall only two pieces of literature that lent my monotonous school life a subtle romantic air: A la recherche du temps perdu by Marcel Proust and the Eclogues by Virgil. For a short time I was so. Linda and Dan and Tom were sitting in the front pew talking. Joan was on the stage behind the massive pulpit pretending she was delivering a sermon. The three in the pew laughed at her antics. She gave a final prayer and ducked behind a curtain."Dan, come here. I want to show you something," she called.Dan shrugged. "The Reverend calls," he said foolishly, and went up on the stage. He fumbled through the curtains until he found her standing in a corner. "Left the little one home today, huh?". More

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