when Venice went into decline, Murano glass did too. It was a time that lasted much longer than the plague, though not so many died. It was grimmer, in a way, because it came to seem this grinding poverty would always exist, rather than burn out rapidly as the disease had. It was a constant throb rather than a sharp pain, a low-grade fever rather than a spike overnight where the sheets are soaked with sweat. The long, dull ache of missing a lover over the years rather than the shock of seeing him row away from you across the lagoon.
