Half read books lie everywhere: Yeats, Tennyson, Chandler, Barrie; a battered paperback de Laclos; a dusty leather-bound Donne. A damp novel perches precariously on the edge of a large bathtub. As your eyes travel beyond the steam rising to the air toward the rose-brambled balcony railing, you notice a well-creased printout of a poem sitting on a the velvet cushions of a rosewood chair that has been set so as to see the stark black mountains from one angle, or the wine-dark sea from another.