And I couldn't get over the fact that there was no difference between Sylvia's Restaurant and any other restaurant in New York City. I mean, it was exactly the same, even though it's run by blacks, primarily black patronship. It was the same.

Everything looked utterly normal, exactly as Thalia had expected save for the absence of a rampaging mob.

(Sylvia) A mature person doesn’t scream at her waiter: “Don’t tell me your name and don’t put anything freshly ground on my salad!” (p. 69)

All things in Naples are arranged with as much civility as possible.

When a glass sits on a table here, people don't wonder if it's half filled or half empty. They just hope it's good beer.

The meeting was a benign environment; potentially just as tremendously boring as war, but without the slivers of utter terror stuck in there as well.

Because one has little fear of shocking vanity in Italy, people adopt an intimate tone very quickly and discuss personal things.

I felt, as it were, at home in this small snug house where there were no oleographs on the walls and where the servants were spoken to with civility. And everything seemed to me young and pure, thanks to the presence of Lida and Misuce, and there was an atmosphere of refinement over everything.

Seated at table -
no need for the fracture
of the room's silence; noiselessly
they conversed.

Everyone was polite; no one was happy.

"There is no disputing about tastes," says the old saw. In my experience there is little else.

[I]n speaking of Italy, romance has omitted for once to exaggerate.

The other thing that was fascinating to me, was there was not a single hint of a protester anywhere there during the whole time we were there. Not one guy with a bad placard.

Not a spoon clinked against a mug, not a creamer was popped, peeled and opened, not a breath. It was as though something else had joined them then. As though silence had taken a seat.