Along the Arno with E.M. Forster / "... the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle."

Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun.

 E.M. Forster, A Room with a View (1908)

Along the Arno with Mark Twain / " It would be a very plausible river if they would pump some water into it"

"We went to the Church of Santa Croce, from time to time, in Florence, to weep over the tombs of Michael Angelo, Raphael and Machiavelli, (I suppose they are buried there, but it may be that they reside elsewhere and rent their tombs to other parties--such being the fashion in Italy,) and between times we used to go and stand on the bridges and admire the Arno. It is popular to admire the Arno. It is a great historical creek with four feet in the channel and some scows floating around. It would be a very plausible river if they would pump some water into it. They all call it a river, and they honestly think it is a river, do these dark and bloody Florentines. They even help out the delusion by building bridges over it. I do not see why they are too good to wade." - Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad (1869)

Well now, I think the Arno is a pretty passable river, especially by my West Coast (USA) standards. The Arno is no Mississippi of course, but seeing as the damage it's caused with it's floods over the centuries, I think that it's worthy of admiration ... and I'm sure this river otter I saw the other day would agree!

Along the Arno with Henry James / "... because the river is yellow, and the light is yellow ... "

As I crossed the Ponte Vecchio the other evening, as dusk was approaching, I thought of Henry James' description of the Arno at Florence from Italian Hours (1909):

"And yet forsooth, because the river is yellow, and the light is yellow, and here and there, elsewhere, some mellow mouldering surface, some hint of colour, some accident of atmosphere, takes up the foolish tale and repeats the note—because, in short, it is Florence, it is Italy, and the fond appraiser, the infatuated alien, may have had in his eyes, at birth and afterwards, the micaceous sparkle of brown- stone fronts no more interesting than so much sand-paper, these miserable dwellings, instead of suggesting mental invocations to an enterprising board of health, simply create their own standard of felicity and shamelessly live in it."