“Man is a blind person who dreams of seeing.” Friedrich Hebbel

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“There are many kings in the world, but only one Michelangelo.” Pietro Aretino

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“The beggar (in the Middle Ages was) poor and dependent on alms - but his social position was not deficient, he lacked nothing.” Anna Mayr

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“There I sat in my mid-thirties as a mother of four children and had never had an orgasm.” Julia Haart

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“In the Renaissance ... talent (meant) the same as versatility.” Egon Friedell

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“When the Milanese Francesco Sforza built a triumphal arch the honored man explained: ‘These are superstitious installations of kings, but I am a Sforza’.” Egon Friedell

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At the beginning of the 15th century, three popes ruling simultaneously caricature the Christian world view. Anarchy from above eliminates the safeguards and stabilizers of rule. It destroys the foundations of medieval society. The chivalric loyalty of followers loses its grandiose dimension. The serfdom loses its binding force for the serfs. The patriciate loses its barrier and bar functions. In his “History of the Modern Age”, Egon Friedell quotes Petrarch’s description of the Pope’s court in Avignon: “All good has perished there ... the more stained a life is, the higher it is valued, and fame grows with crime”.

Good enough

We reached Inis Éisteacht at low tide, across a rocky causeway. The Atlantic had briefly receded and would return soon. The island seemed empty — except for a man, thin, gray, austere but not too much, perhaps a virtuoso of scarcity, with binoculars slung over his shoulder and a military rucksack on his back. Wordlessly, he gestured toward the sea. “The water comes back. And you bring voices with you.”

He asked us to take a seat.

“Did you bring anything?”

I handed him the folder without looking at him.

Space, wind, tides... The inn was called The West Winds Inn. Whitewashed walls, low ceilings, exposed beams. A mix of soap and damp timber rose to my nose — not unpleasant, more like the olfactory archive of many harsh winters.

Inside the room were two spartan single beds. Laughing, we pushed them together. That was the first measure.

On the embroidered pillows, the wordsGood Enoughwere stitched.

You opened your notebook and showed me a page. The same phrase.

“When did you write this?” I asked.

“This morning,” you said. “Just before we left.”

I closed my eyes. Normality. A bed. Warm, soft pillows into which one could sink. That was good enough, in any case.

On the windowsill, shells were carefully lined up. Outside, the evening sky stretched in violet and copper over the exposed tidal flats. The water had gone. Left behind were dazzlingly bright sand surfaces, cut through with narrow streams in which the light fractured.

“It looks,” you said, “as if the sea is holding its breath.”

“Hold me,” I demanded, without claim. I had already said goodbye to you inwardly, yet I used your love and familiarity with my body. I honestly believed I could not harm you. You had your pleasure with me. That’s how I saw it, while my longing for Goya raged within me. I thought of reaching out, but dismissed it day after day. I needed to see him, feel him, smell him.

Your body made an offer my mind had not yet realized. You touched my neck, brushing the chain on which hung the medallion once secretly worn by Goya’s Neapolitan great-grandmother. Hidden on the skin, under layers of propriety, as a token of a passion long punished in the convent of lovelessness. In an evocation, I met the ancestor in the colors of the present mesalliance. My back arched into a hollow of surrender. But that surrender was not for you.

I felt your hands on my hips and heard the operetta melody of shared pleasure.

“I adore you,” you said.

“I feel it,” I replied, heartlessly.

We went to the table. There was freshly caught sea bass, fried in butter, with boiled potatoes sprinkled with chives, and a bowl of braised coastal fennel. Lemon tart for dessert.