Abstract
Some years before I had visited Umbria and met there a woman. She told me of her father, a shoe cobbler, who lived in a Polish village and carved poems in the soles he mended. The village could always be found by following the trail of poems left in the dirt streets which led away from it. This was her way, I supposed, of telling me I was a child, still to be told fairy tales. And maybe I proved her right, insisting to hear it all over again, challenging her when the details changed.
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