For the first time, really, I find myself in the southern part of the old world, and there is something peculiar about it. The quality of decay (equally of paint and morals) is entirely superior here.
Concretely, one may observe this is in the sugar packets that are three times the size of ones you would find in the new world or in northern Europe, the ubiquity and cheapness of drink, the succulents sprouting from collapsed roofs. Austerity is to be found nowhere, and particularly not in the church, where one may find the severed head of St. John the baptist and obscene gilt drapery (not painted, but carved in wood and now dripping with who knows what substance).
But, as many have observed, there is also a mental south, and this is equally irresistible and horrifying. Here, one does not dream, but is kept in a fever state. There is no future in the south, you see- only the occasional pleasure which entirely resists planning or deferral. This is why we view it as permanently youthful, despite the wrinkled facades and rotting infrastructure. The south is precisely the point at which thanatos meets eros.
It is also 'Jack on his Deathbed,' illustrated so aptly by Walton Ford:
