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🧇 福彩开奖直播截图

北京时间2025年5月11日，福彩双色🕯球第25052期开奖，以下是详细开奖流程：

😊 21:15 双色球摇奖开始

21🎮:18 奖号全部产生，本期奖号红球🔉06 07 10 17 20 26，蓝球09。

21:25 当期红球号🏢码大小比为3:3，三区💳比为3:2:1，奇偶比为2:4。形态方面，红球开出重号17🐑；同尾号06 26、07 17、10 20；连号06 0🌦7；蓝球开出遗漏13期的大奇数09。

22:10&nbs🐜p;本期一等奖开出27注，单注🛒奖金552万余元，27注头奖分落16地，其中陕西擒5注，深圳、广东各中出🚱3注，江苏、湖南、青海分别中出2注，🥠内🧙蒙古、辽宁、吉林、上海、浙江、江西、山东、重庆、河南、四川各1注🖌。二等奖开出161注，单注奖金10.9万余元。本期双色球全国销量为3.90亿余元，计奖结束后奖池余额为21.🚝29亿余元。

当晚其他玩法开奖号码为：

💸 福彩3d第25121期最新开奖号码🥧：1👐 2 0

排🦐列三第25121🤪期最新开奖号码：4 2 4

排🤮列五第2512🚩1期最新开奖号码：4 2 4 9 9

• 高二物理组组长黄传辉带着他对高中物理的思考给即将步入高一的学生们吃了一颗定心丸，既不要轻敌也不要害怕，从第一节课开始扎扎实实地理解和记住每一个知识点，并且学会思考，就可以轻松攻克高中物理。
• 鲁西化工：己内酰胺二期项目投产
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• last summer, early in the morning, i stood out in the main square of florence to watch the tourists come in. it was quiet. a street cleaner drove its rounds, leaving wet circles on the paving stones. a vendor unpacked souvenirs from the back of his white van. when the crowds began to arrive — tour groups from japan, china, germany, spain — they seemed less like people than like weather. they surged into the square, pooling and drifting. they clicked selfies in front of the statues. a small herd of segways rolled past, one rider singing fake opera at the top of his lungs. i watched a tour group from arizona (clearly identifiable by their neck badges) approach the white figure of michelangelo’s david, towering on a pedestal in front of city hall. one of the tourists pointed to it and said, in a tone of amused contempt: “it’s the most famous statue in the world, and they just leave it outside. no big deal — just hose off the pigeon crap. ” the implication was clear: italy was a backward country, incapable of protecting its cultural treasures. to be fair, the tourist was not the first person to make this accusation. in his history “the italians,” luigi barzini writes that one of the basic pleasures italy reliably provides for visitors is “that of feeling morally superior to the natives. ” i sometimes felt this pleasure myself. the inefficiency of the italian bureaucracy, whether selling you a postage stamp or fixing a street, was often marvelous to behold. and indeed, the statue the man was pointing at had obviously suffered from standing outside: the marble was striped with dirt. but the tourist was, in one very important respect, wrong. he was pointing not at the actual david but at a marble replica. michelangelo’s real statue did once stand in this spot, but it was moved, for its own protection, 143 years ago. the original is now in a museum across town, shielded from the elements, perfectly safe. or at least that’s how we like to think of it. we are conditioned to believe that art is safe, beyond the reach of the grimy world. we don’t hang the mona lisa next to an archery range. we put her in a fortress: walls, checkpoints, lasers, guards, bulletproof glass. there are scholars, textbooks, posters — a whole collective mythology suggesting that the work will live forever. but safety is largely an illusion, and permanence a fiction. empires hemorrhage wealth, bombs fall on cities, religious radicals decimate ancient temples. destruction happens in any number of ways, for any number of reasons, at any number of speeds — and it will happen, and no amount of reverence will stop it. few humans on earth know this melancholy truth better than the citizens of florence. they are born into a profound intimacy with decay. the city was the epicenter of the renaissance — home to such superheroes as giotto, brunelleschi, donatello, cellini and leonardo da vinci — and the relics of that period have been under siege, more or less constantly, ever since. in 1497, the fanatical monk savonarola sent his followers door to door to gather the city’s nonreligious art, books, clothing, musical instruments, then piled it all 50 feet high in the central square and set it on fire: the infamous bonfire of the vanities. (the spectacle was such a success that he repeated it the following year.) in 1895, earthquakes shook florence so hard that citizens, fearing aftershocks, spent the night sleeping out in the streets. the 20th century brought nazis and mafia car bombs. this november will mark the 50th anniversary of the great florentine flood of 1966, an inundation that overtook much of the city center, killing dozens of people and destroying old masterpieces. today, the perpetual engine of florentine destruction seems only to be getting bolder. its latest target is its most ambitious yet: the mascot of the renaissance, shining ideal of the human form, one of the most celebrated artworks in this or any other city — michelangelo’s david. the trouble is the david’s ankles. they are cracked. italians first discovered this weakness back in the 19th century, and modern scientists have mapped the cracks extensively, but until recently no one claimed to know just how enfeebled the ankles might be. this changed in 2014, when a team of italian geoscientists published a paper called “modeling the failure mechanisms of michelangelo’s david through centrifuge experiments. ” that dry title concealed a terrifying story. the paper describes an experiment designed to measure, in a novel way, the weakness in the david’s ankles: by creating a small army of tiny david replicas and spinning them in a centrifuge, at various angles, to simulate different levels of stress. what the researchers found was grim. if the david were to be tilted 15 degrees, his ankles would fail. the seed of the problem is a tiny imperfection in the statue’s design. the center of gravity in the base doesn’t align with the center of gravity in the figure itself when the base is level, in other words, the david’s body is slightly . there is, as the article nicely puts it, “an eccentricity of the loads. ” this places extra pressure on the david’s narrowest part: his ankles. as long as the statue is perfectly upright, the eccentricity of the loads is tolerable. but there is very little margin for error. if you tilt the base even slightly, the stress on the ankles sharply increases. now it just so happens that, for a very long time, before he was moved into his protective museum, the david was leaning slightly. no one is sure exactly why. he stood, for more than 300 years, in the spot where i saw the tourist from arizona scoff at the dirty replica. popular legend says the lean was caused by a thunderclap in 1511, part of a violent storm that florentines interpreted as a bad political omen, but more likely it was a result of the ground shifting slightly, for regular reasons — something like the force that tilts the famous tower of pisa or the one that sucks constantly at the city of venice. for several hundred years, the david leaned at an angle of several degrees. that doesn’t sound like much, but when you’re dealing with six tons bearing down every second of every minute of every day of every year of every century, it is plenty. hairline fractures worked their way slowly through the stone. the right leg is significantly worse than the left. as the tilt of the statue increases, the stress will move higher and higher up that leg, until — at the moment of failure — it will break off just below the knee. but what would make the david tilt? the big fear is tremors, tremors of all kinds: traffic rumbling, the nearby construction of a train tunnel, the steady concussion of tourists’ feet and — most of all — earthquakes. florence sits near several active fault lines, and every so often the city takes a seismic hit. in december 2014, a rash of 250 earthquakes rattled the countryside around florence. most were minor, and none hit the city directly, but still — florentines could feel the motion. my mind could not stop imagining it. an earthquake hits the center of florence. liquid waves roll under the rigid city: the church bells ring out of time, terra cotta tiles rain down from the renaissance rooftops, priceless paintings rattle off the walls of the uffizi. meanwhile, inside the accademia gallery, the david’s pedestal begins to tilt. slightly at first, just enough to shift the statue’s gaze, so that he looks not at his old enemy anymore — the implied goliath off in the distance — but at a new one: the floor he’s been standing on for 134 years. as the ground continues to roll, the david’s tilt accelerates. five degrees, six degrees, seven, eight, nine. gravity begins to act not just on the top of the david’s head but on his back, pushing him forward. ten degrees, 11, 12. finally, the compromised ankles reach their angle of maximum stress. they begin to slide along the old microfracture faults — an earthquake within the earthquake — and the david’s legs and ankles are crushed by the weight of the body above. he begins to truly fall. the first thing to hit the floor is his bent left elbow, the arm that holds the heroic sling, and it bursts along the lines of its previous breaks, old scars left over from an incident in the 16th century involving an unruly mob and a bench. then the rest of the marble will meet the floor, and the physics from there will be fast and simple: force, resistance, the brittleness of calcite crystals, the shearing of microscopic grains along the axes on which they align. michelangelo’s david will explode. when i first saw the david in person, the only word that came to mind was “perfect. ” why hadn’t anyone ever told me he was perfect? i was 20 years old, exhausted, unwashed, traveling for the first time ever, ignorant of almost everything worth knowing. “perfect,” i know now, is not a terribly original response to the statue, nor a very precise one, but in that moment it filled my mind. it felt like a revolution — urgent, deep, vital, true. standing in front of the david was, by far, the most powerful experience i had ever had with a work of art. the statue is gigantic: 17 feet tall, three times the size of an actual man, the height of a mature giraffe — another fact that no one had ever told me. i had always assumed, based on the images, that the david was . to find otherwise seemed like a category error, like arriving at the taj mahal to discover that it is actually the size of a walnut. there was an existential snap in my brain, a sudden adjustment of the relative values and proportions of every other object in the world, including me. he towered over me in his iconic pose: back foot flat, front foot tipped, shoulders cocked, left arm raised to hold the sling, huge right hand hanging down by his side, head turned fiercely toward the glorious future. he was a giant marble god, except he wasn’t a god he was a man, but then of course he wasn’t really a man either he was white stone — but the stone looked somehow soft, like flesh, and the marble curved and rippled into muscles and veins, tiny and large, subtle and blunt, each feature easing inevitably into the next, all the way around. my eye kept roaming, looking for imperfections, not finding any. my mind ran in silly loops. the only word it would settle on, again and again, was “perfect. ” i stood there in my filthy birkenstocks feeling a sense of religious transcendental soaring: the promise that my true self was not bound by the constraints of my childhood — by freeway exits, office parks, programs, laundry rooms at dingy apartment complexes, vineyards plowed under and converted into walmarts, instability, change, dead dogs, divorce. no. the david suggested that my true self existed most fully in some interstellar superhistorical realm in which all the ideal things of the universe commingled in a perpetual ecstasy of harmonizing trumpet blasts. if such perfection could exist in the world, i felt, then so many other things were suddenly possible: to live a perfect life creating perfect things, to find an ideal way to be. what was the point of anything less? again, i was 20. my girlfriend and i were in the middle of a grand tour of europe. we slept every night in teeming hostels, ate meat with our hands in public parks, frightened people with our terrible german. but it was all worth it for moments like this — moments in which i could truly believe that perfection was real, as real as a train station a few hours away, and that my life was heading toward it. a huge crowd swarmed around the david, gawking and chatting, but i hardly noticed them. my girlfriend and i stood in the museum for an extremely long time, until the crowds began to thin. eventually we left and moved on to another museum, another city, and then we went home and — as the years rolled up their sleeves and marched americanly by — we got married, had children, found jobs. i fantasized about perfection while crashing, again and again, into what i discovered were the extremely solid walls of my own limitations. just on the other side of those walls, i knew, stood the david on his special pedestal: an impossible destination that i was nevertheless determined to reach. but the meeting between my head and that wall began to take up more and more of my attention, and after a while i started to wonder if the perfection on the other side actually existed, if there had ever really been anything there to begin with. the david began, in 1464, with a mistake. several mistakes, actually. in fact, so many mistakes, and such serious ones, that the whole project seemed to be ruined from the start. the source and precise extent of the mistakes have been disputed over the centuries, but what we know for sure is that none of the mistakes were michelangelo’s fault, because he wasn’t born yet. the block that would become the david was cut out of the mountains 11 years before its eventual sculptor’s birth. the first mistake was the stone itself. the community in and around carrara was, and remains today, practically a sovereign nation, with its own dialect and politics and lore and hierarchies of technical expertise. michelangelo was a native of the quarrying world, fluent in its ways, but the sculptor who chose the block, agostino di duccio, was largely ignorant of them. he had been selected by one of florence’s most influential groups, the wool guild, to carve a monumental marble statue of the biblical david. it would sit high on the edge of the city’s great cathedral, the duomo, to serve as a show of strength, an artistic boast and a warning to the city’s enemies. but agostino was in over his head. he had no experience carving marble on this scale — nobody alive did. the block he chose was huge but flawed. the power of marble, after all, is supposed to be in its perfection: a pure white chunk cut, at almost impossible expense, out of the dirty, ragged mountains. but this slab was marred by little holes, discolored by veins. it was not only agostino di duccio who was overmatched — the quarriers were, too. the block was 18 feet tall and something like 25, 000 pounds. no one had harvested a stone this large in close to 1, 000 years. the whole process was one ordeal after another. because statuary marble tends to form up near the tops of mountains, it took months of labor to get it down to the quarry floor. the trip from carrara to florence — an journey that takes around two hours in a modern car — took two more arduous years. there were teams of men, teams of oxen, big ocean ships, flat river barges, inclement weather, monthslong delays. at one point, the giant block fell into a muddy ditch and had to be laboriously extracted. one scholar has speculated that this accident caused the cracks that now plague the ankles. when the block finally arrived in florence, it was greeted as a wonder. its size, to the public, would have been more apparent than its imperfections. it was deposited in a courtyard behind the cathedral — a huge white apparition in the middle of the small brown city. people came from all over just to stare. city leaders went to inspect the block, and they were dismayed. it had not only been badly chosen it had also been badly carved. agostino, as was traditional, had “roughed out” the block at the quarry — a quick whittling down to leave only what was necessary for the eventual statue. in doing so, however, he had compounded his previous mistake. the block had been strangely narrow to begin with, and agostino had made it even narrower. he created an awkward hole in its middle. it was hard to see how this stone was ever going to become a plausible human form. some believed that it was ruined, that the city’s investment was already lost. agostino was fired. the block was abandoned. it sat there, on its side, getting rained on, hailed on, fouled by birds, for more than 30 years. after a while, it became a fixed part of the landscape of florence. people and buildings changed all around it, regimes rose and fell, but the monumental block never moved. residents began to call it, with some mixture of respect and mockery, “the giant. ” i didn’t get back to florence, after my initial visit, for nearly 20 years. when i did finally return, it was as an adult man on the brink of middle age. i was not quite 40 but felt, in many ways, older. my hair, once as heroically thick as the david’s, had begun to thin visibly, and i felt sad about this, and i also considered my sadness to be its own failure, because i wanted to be the kind of person who didn’t care about superficial, things. every morning, when i stepped out of bed, my joints hurt, especially my ankles, which a doctor had recently diagnosed with arthritis — they were 20 years older than the rest of me, he said. my youthful pursuit of perfection had gone, shall we say, not terribly well. i had turned out to be a strange person, not anything like an ideal. my life was littered with awkwardnesses, estrangements, mutual disillusionments, abandoned projects. recently, i had begun to notice an odd tic in my interpersonal style — a problem with my gaze. i would be speaking with someone, a friend or a shopkeeper, all very normally (how are you good thanks how are you how’s your summer) and then, for no discernible reason, my eyes would dart away from my interlocutor, urgently, right over one of his or her shoulders, and the shift would be so sudden that the person would whip his or her head around to see what on earth i was looking at — a policeman or an exotic bird or a runaway train — but it would turn out that there was nothing there at all. my gaze had been flicked away by a little spasm of social discomfort. and so the person would look back at me, confused, and i would manage to hold his or her gaze for another few seconds until the social energy built back up between us to an intolerable level, at which point i would suddenly break the circuit again by looking away — and the person would look, one more time, back over his or her shoulder to confirm that nothing was there, and then our relationship would be altered forever. perfection, it turns out, is no way to try to live. it is a child’s idea, a cartoon — this desire not to be merely good, not to do merely well, but to be faultless, to transcend everything, including the limits of yourself. it is less heroic than neurotic, and it doesn’t take much analysis to get to its ugly side: a lust for control, pseudofascist purity, . perfection makes you flinch at yourself, flinch at the world, flinch at any contact between the two. soon what you want, above all, is escape: to be gone, elsewhere, annihilated. by the time i returned to florence, i had grown accustomed to spending solid weeks in a state of high anxiety — my hands would turn freezing, like a corpse, and i would sit at my desk wishing i could cry, and my wife would tell me, with increasing urgency, that she was afraid i was going to have a heart attack. eventually, after many years of this, i was prescribed a daily pill intended to stabilize an imbalance in my brain chemistry, and this solution has worked, more or less. yet i am still plagued by this eccentricity of the loads: an impossible tension between the fantasies in my head and the realities on the ground. and so, on my bad ankles and with my broken gaze, i returned to see the david. things in florence seemed essentially the same. crowds still waited for hours in the brutal heat to enter the churchlike museum. inside, the david stood exactly as i last saw him. i experienced the same moment of revelation: the sudden improbability of his size, his excellence. he still dominated the space, still held the light on his impossibly subtle musculature. in fact, he was looking better than ever, because in the intervening years he had been cleaned, millimeter by millimeter, at great expense and with some controversy — the grit and dust of 500 years scrubbed off. the marble seemed to glow. once again, my brain reached for the word “perfect. ” but “perfect” no longer seemed adequate. although i couldn’t see the cracks inside the david’s ankles and legs, i knew they were there. i knew other things too: that the marble of his face was pocked with holes, for instance, which restorers had filled in, and that he was missing a small chip of stone from one of his lower eyelids, and that his right little toe had been lost multiple times, and that a crazy man had taken a hammer to his left foot in 1991. although the david’s maladies were mostly patched up over the centuries, you could still see all the scars. in the year 1501, amid fresh political spasms, the leaders of florence decided to rehabilitate the giant. but who could possibly save it? there was some talk of giving the project to leonardo da vinci, the city’s (and europe’s) reigning genius. but leonardo was an intellectual, nearly 50 years old, who openly disdained the process of sculpture — that sweaty blunt hacking at stone. in the end, the commission went to a less famous florentine, michelangelo buonarroti, a eccentric who had just made his reputation in rome by carving a marble pietà for st. peter’s — a statue of astonishing grace and maturity and polish. michelangelo hurried home to take the commission. the first step had been to stand the giant up. this, in itself, was a production. once again, all of florence came out to watch. the block had been sitting there for 35 years, almost the entire life expectancy of a human, and it was now in worse shape than ever. marble is best to carve when it is freshly cut from the mountain. the longer it sits out, the more brittle it becomes. the giant was now thoroughly “cooked,” in the local parlance — dried out by decades of sun. some people said it was beyond salvaging. many wanted to attach extra marble blocks to it. they said it would be impossible to get a proper figure out of the misshapen mess that was left. this would become one of the feats that would elevate michelangelo to mythic status: that he not only salvaged the ruined block but also turned it into a masterpiece. as the renaissance art historian giorgio vasari put it: “and truly it was a miracle on the part of michelangelo to restore to life a thing that was dead. ” the miracle took some time. first, michelangelo decided that he needed to carve the david in private, so workers came and built a roofless shed around the giant. for many months, inside his shed, michelangelo toiled away unseen, using a series of finer and finer chisels in an attempt to rescue every centimeter of the stone. he was a savant of marble, so he would have understood everything about the block, all of its grains and flaws and possibilities. the figure of the david began to emerge little by little, as a. victor coonin puts it in his definitive recent history of the statue, “from marble to flesh,” “like a person being slowly revealed as water drains from a bath. ” when the shed was finally opened for a public viewing, in the summer of 1503, the david really must have seemed like a miracle. the dirty old cooked giant had become a smooth, enormous, naked man, paused just on the brink of heroic motion. the young sculptor had not run from the odd dimensions of the block he embraced them, turning them into his figure’s signature elements. the block’s narrowness yielded the lean, twisting body (as opposed to an overmuscled superman) with its huge head and hands. michelangelo gave the david a grotesquely furrowed brow — a shelf of a forehead closer to a neanderthal’s than a modern human’s — because he knew that anything more “realistic” would fail to scan for a viewer on the ground. the figure was unreal but real, stylized but natural. it would come to define the city. a debate raged over where to put the david. the statue was so powerful, so impressive, that it seemed a waste (and perhaps even impossible, engineeringwise) to install it in its intended destination, way up on the cathedral. instead, after rounds of conferences among the florentine intelligentsia, it was decided that the sculpture would be installed in the city’s central square, the piazza della signoria, where everyone could see it. a special machine had to be invented to move it: a huge wooden frame inside of which the david was suspended in a net of ropes, rocking gently, as a crew of men rolled it across the city on greased beams. at night, it had to be protected by armed guards from rowdy kids who were throwing rocks at it. the david’s journey took four days, at the end of which it was installed, to much fanfare, out in the public square. it would stand in that same spot for the next 369 years, a period during which it would be shaken by thunder, hit by carts and smeared with bird feces. in 1527, a riotous mob tried to storm city hall, and another mob, in defense of the public order, threw heavy objects out the windows: stones, tiles, furniture. a bench hit the david, breaking his left arm in half. michelangelo went off to rome, where he painted the sistine chapel designed the dome of st. peter’s basilica, at the time the largest in the history of the world and eventually died, wealthy and famous beyond measure, at age 88. he would never see his david again. the giant continued its slow decline. although the broken arm was eventually mended and reattached, the statue remained outside, exposed to rain, ice, hail, wind and vandals. its surface began to visibly degrade. in the 19th century, the statue’s restorers tended only to make things worse — they used wax, which discolored the marble, and acid, which ate at its surface. before long, the david needed restoring from his restoration. a broken rain gutter on the palazzo vecchio poured torrents of water directly onto the statue. concerned citizens began to agitate for him to be moved indoors. they built a protective wooden shed over him, isolating him in a bubble of safety. this brought the public life of the david full circle. he was carved in a shed he was hidden in a shed. eventually, the statue’s protectors were able to move him, on train tracks laid laboriously across florence, to a room in the accademia. but the room still wasn’t finished, so the david sat inside a crate for years, growing colonies of microorganisms like a huge piece of cheese. the accademia attracts well over a million visitors a year, and they all end up in one room: the david’s rotunda. i stood there, in the summer of 2015, watching the crowd watch the david. the air in the room was perfectly still. the tourists fanned themselves with maps of florence. guides, speaking directly into their followers’ ears via microphones, led large groups into the center of the crowd like battalions into battle. i watched a woman take a short nap while leaning against a stone column. a couple from holland sat down next to me and fired streams of dutch at each other, the only word of which i could make out was the english “ . ” most of all, people took pictures. for almost its entire history, the accademia has been a strict zone, but the rise of smartphones made that impossible, and now the phones have taken over. tourists spend their time in front of the david poking a version of him on their touch screens. i witnessed the execution of many, many selfies: the jockeying for a proper angle, the sudden smile, the brisk walk away. (there always seemed to be something furtive, something almost criminal, about a selfie.) often, through a trick of perspective, the ’s own head would appear on the screen twice as big as the david. the most popular target for photographers was the david’s genitals. people were obsessed with them. i watched a very american man (tommy hilfiger shirt, oakley sunglasses, bmw baseball hat) pretend to cup the statue’s testicles while his wife took his picture — and then his wife pretended to cup the david’s testicles while he took her picture. two women posed for a photo pretending to hold the david’s penis simultaneously, as if it were a trophy fish. a serious man his iphone camera, with delicate precision, on the david’s foreskin. at the back of the crowd, i found the david’s security guard. he sat sideways on a folding chair, chin in hand, a model of relaxed uninterest he seemed to watch the room without even looking. when he spoke, his mustache moved over a mouth that was missing several teeth. he was a native florentine, and he told me stories about crazy tourists (weeping, thongs) and about the great flood of 1966, in which his family’s house was underwater up to the second floor. i asked him if, after all this time, he had any personal feeling of awe left for the david. he said he did not. “if you eat chocolate every day for 20 years,” he said, “you will get bored of it. ” if looking at michelangelo’s david is the equivalent of eating chocolate, then walking the streets of florence is like drowning in willy wonka’s gushing chocolate river. the image of the david is everywhere. there are bookmarks, mouse pads, posters, watches, key chains, mugs, ballpoint pens, commemorative plates, pie servers, snow globes, sugar spoons, usb sticks and christmas ornaments. there are leather shops and pizzerias and even parking garages named after him. tourists can buy aprons that make them look as if they have the david’s body: the lean, muscular torso, the naked little penis. and then there are the statuettes: a vast army of miniature imitation davids that stand in shop windows and on hawkers’ carts in all the famous piazzas. near the accademia i found a store called, in english, “david shop. ” it was a bonanza, more davids than i have ever seen in one place before. the smallest was the size of my pinkie, the biggest slightly taller than an average italian woman. i bought a postcard that was also a jigsaw puzzle featuring the david’s penis wearing sunglasses and saying “ciao!” next to the duomo, for an exorbitant price, i bought a bobblehead david his giant head, attached by a spring, waggled ridiculously as i walked. he waggled past many other versions of himself — hundreds, thousands, infinity davids. from a distance, many of the replicas looked acceptably but up close most of them were laughably bad. the replicas are like a systematic exploration of all the possible ways to distort michelangelo’s design. their faces are squashed, their heads are flat, their noses are pointed, they look like goblins. some of them seem to have breasts. others have rib cages jutting out in high relief, like cartoons of shipwreck survivors. one david stood several feet tall and cost more than $200 — a serious investment that would have taken up major space in any buyer’s home. its face looked like a emaciated elf’s. its muscles were lumpy and gnarled. its feet were long and bony, like the feet of an ancient witch in a fairy tale. its hair looked like a pile of spaghetti. it seemed more a parody of the david than a tribute. in the accademia gift shop, i bought a sticker that read, simply, “david mania. ” this, i decided, was the epitome of david souvenirs — a tribute not to the actual david but to our mass enthusiasm for him. sometimes, when i found myself fed up with florence and its crowds, overwhelmed by the kitsch, the heat, the vendors, the constant eruptions of renaissance cosplay, my walks took me across the river, away from the old bridge, toward a plain yellow building with a stationery shop on its ground floor. twenty feet up, where no one ever seemed to look, was a small historical plaque identifying it as the temporary home of the great russian novelist fyodor dostoyevsky. this is where he agonized over the writing of his novel “the idiot,” which i was rereading. dostoyevsky was, in many ways, the : ugly, short, hairy, awkward, nervous, ill, angry, a prophet of spite and . i found him incredibly inspiring. he spoke to me beyond the kitsch, above the crowds, from the other side of my old simplistic understanding of the david. he gestured toward something more complex, more inclusive, more sustainable. dostoyevsky moved to florence with his wife in 1868, during a miserable swing through europe, and he detested the city at times with a degree of comic loathing that only he could have mustered for such a beautiful place. he complained about the humidity, the rain, the crowds, the heat. he never learned italian, preferring to sit in his room, alone, wrestling with his novel. he stayed, for nearly a year, only because he was too poor to leave — he had compulsively blown much of his mone
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