samedi 7 mai 2011

Hedgehog city

Manhattan bristles with bustle and beauty like a fat young hedgepig, basking in the sun and justifiably rather pleased with itself. The spines of a hundred beautiful Art Deco and Beaux Arts buildings rear up into the blue, alongside the spires and towers of synagogues, churches and cathedral and the steel-and-glass sinews of less ancient gods. Through and between them rush the ant people, jogging or jaywalking, coffee beaker in hand and mobile phone clasped to one ear as they close deals, juggle appointments, sweet-talk lovers, gossip to girlfriends and pacify landlords, creditors and relatives.

All is fast and slick and sleek and urgent, yet we glide along in the treacle of a sunny morning, without deadline or obligation and given to happy distraction from the loosely defined aims of each day. Without us and those like us, who would admire the beauty and cleverness of it all? Who would crane up at the friezes, gargoyles and light fittings, grin at the neon and the synchronised Charge of the Yellow Cab Brigade, saunter through the pretty streets of the Village in the appreciatively nonchalant manner they deserve?


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