I approached this book with great anticipation, having loved Venice my entire adult life, having visited it half a dozen times and having devoured a whole shelf-ful of Venetian novels, stories, poems and travel books--Wings of the Dove, Death in Venice, The Passion, Those Who Walk Away, The Comfort of Strangers, Don't Look Now, Dead Lagoon, Invisible Cities, the mystery novels of Donna Leon, the histories by Jan Morris and J.J. Norwich, and the classic book-length essay by Mary McCarthy. Venice tends to confer a kind of refinement on books about her. But not this time! I found it impossible to get into this book. I kept trying NOT to become bored, hoping it would get better, but alas it did not. The author's narrative voice is grating, arch, full of itself and hollow. She tries for lit'ry effects again and again, but all she achieves is affectation, which is painful to witness, if at times unintentionally hilarious: I mean, what on earth does "evanescence whispered in the walls" mean? Does the author understand the meaning of the word "evanescence?" It would seem not. Rylands betrays herself throughout her book as a posturing novice putting on airs. Stay away at all costs. You can lay your hands on enough real literature about Venice without wasting your time on trash like this.