Dear Agnes,
This began as a quick letter to express my regrets about your father but became, in the end, as you shall see, something a tad longer. He was a good man, even if, alas, you didn't know him. And I think he'd appreciate much, if not all, of what follows. It's best to be honest, even if that wasn't his favorite dictum. He arrived in Rome several decades before me and I can't say we got to know each other well, although I was for a while one of his admirers. I knew him well enough to write this and was present, or at least in town, for the extra-ordinary events that contributed to his death, which, let it be said now, to put any worries to rest, was quick and, as far as one can ever know, painless.
So begins Ode to Angelo, the story of a bohemian circle of American and English expats whose sprezzatura is shattered by a shocking encounter between one of them and her lover's bullying brother. Through it all, an aging poet, scholar and tour guide named Augustus Reading-worldly yet earnest, sybaritic yet civilized, ridiculous yet sublime-struggles to uphold a standard of decency as obsolete as he is.