Mary McCarthy didn’t just love Florence, she truly knew it. The good, the bad, the ugly, the downright sad, she observed it all, and The Stones of Florence is her report on the city. The book is not for the faint of heart, as it is as complicated as the history of the city itself. There is no seemingly obvious structure, with history and art intermingled throughout the book. Each chapter has a major theme, such as how Florence is not tourist-friendly, the sculpture, the paintings, the architecture. But she seems to meander in her chapters, ostensibly without a goal in mind, other than to present the city as she saw it. Since the book was written in the 1950s, I suspect that some of what she saw might be different over half a century later. The Stones of Florence is not a travel guide, a history lesson, or a discussion of Florentine art. Other books must be consulted for that information. Instead, it is an essay on the city, written by a perceptive spectator who appreciated the beauty of what she saw. I don’t know if I will see the same things in Florence that she did. However, I suspect that I will return to the book upon our return from the city. Only time will tell. ( )