The half-hidden shapes, the tracks of
windows, the patterns of rooftops suggest things--fortresses, palaces,
dungeons, wars, witches and cathedrals.
But after watching them they lose these false significances. They suggest
nothing. They are the amputations of men. Things, playthings men have left
behind for the corset and the ice cream ads to wink at. And this is the
real secret of their beauty. The night devours their meaning and leaves
behind lines; angles, geometries, rhythms and lights. And these things
that have no meaning, that suggest nothing, that are not the symbols of
ideas or events--these become beautiful.
There are several people standing on this bridge--loiterers. Their elbows
rest on the railing, their faces are hidden in their hands. They stare
into the scene. A hoarse whistle toots at Wells Street. Bells clang far
away. There is a scurry of dim noises in the dark. Something huge moves
through the air. It is a bridge opening. Its arms make a massive gesture
upward. A boat is coming through, a heavy shape drifting among the
carnival ribbons that hang down in the black water.
* * * * *
Noises that have different tones. Boat whistles, bridge bells, electric
alarm tinglings and the swish of water like the sound of wood tapping
wood.
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