The sole precedent I can find for the broken style of my prologue is Longinus on the Sublime and that one far-fetched. When my mother was in Rome on that rare journey forever to be remembered, she lived in a small pension near the Fincio gardens. The place had been chosen by my brother as one notably easy of access, being in a quarter free from confusion of traffic, on a street close to the park and furthermore the tram to the American Academy passed at the corner. Yet never did my mother go out but she was in fear of being lost. By turning to the left when she should have turned right, actually she did once manage to go so far astray that it was nearly an hour before she extricated herself from the strangeness of every new vista and found a landmark.