On the one hand, reproduction of a certain utopian scene that immeasurably enriched my life as an undergraduate—permitting a young student to imagine in greater detail the pantheon of possible ideal conversations. On the other, the certain melancholy that dawns when one is ushered out of the Sistine Chapel in barking English and ticketed signori—beings melancholy godlier than gods of 500 years back lying on scaffolding to mirror their genesis with the most arrogant virtù, amounting to nothing more than 10 minutes' spectacle and touring wistfulness in the current context, nations of discouraged spring.