Tuesday, February 24, 2009
after thinking about his new love for some time and not remembering the color of her eyes, looking at new york:
and then he saw a strange white cloud moving across the now golden face of the city's cliffs in the sunset. it changed shape and form as it flew about the towers like a whimsical ghost. he realized what it was—pigeons, millions of pigeons, in a cloud electrified by reflection. they wheeled across the skyline like particles of smoke in Brownian motion, caught brilliantly in a dark chamber by a clear stroke of light reverberating between a sky and floor of yellow brass. next to the bodies of the buildings they were like mites, or snow, or confetti, or dust...and yet they were one single flight, rising like a plume in the wind. Peter Lake knew from this that the city would take care, for it was a magical gate through which those who entered passed in innocent longing, taking every hope, showing touching courage—and for good reason. the city would take care. there was no choice but to trust the architect's dream that was spread before him as compact as an engine, solid and sure, shimmering over the glinting ice. he lay back, resigned until he saw her again not to know the color of her eyes.
and then he was suddenly overwhelmed. it was as if a thousand bolts of lightening had converged to lift him. all he could see was blue, electric blue, wet shining warm blue, blue with no end, everywhere, blue that glowed made him cry out, blue, blue, her eyes were blue.
such pretty words. this passage gave me the chills (but you may have to read the whole wonderful chapter to have that reaction). from winter's tale by Mark Helprin. the book is so good!