The fan-shaped
skyscrapers spread a checkerboard of window lights through the gloom. It
rains. People seem to grow vaguely elate on the dark wet pavements. They
hurry along, their eyes saying to one another, "We have something in
common. We are all getting wet in the rain." The crowd is no longer quite
so enigmatic a stranger to itself. An errand boy from Market Street
advances with leaps through the downpour, a high chant on his lips, "It's
raining ... it's raining." The rain mutters and the pavements, like
darkened mirrors, grow alive with impressionistic cartoons of the city.
Inside the Washington Street book store of Covici-McGee the electric
lights gleam cozily. New books and old books--the high shelves stuffed
with books vanish in the ceiling shadows. On a rainy day the dusty army of
books peers coaxingly from the shelves. Old tales, old myths, old wars,
old dreams begin to chatter softly in the shadows--or it may be the
chatter of the rain on the pavement outside. The Great Philosophers
unbend, the Bearded Classics sigh, the Pontifical Critics of Life murmur
"ahem." Yes, even the forbidding works of Standard Authors grow lonely on
the high shelves on a rainy day. As for the rag-tag, ruffle-snuffle crowd
in motley--the bulged, spavined, sniffling crew of mountebanks,
troubadours, swashbucklers, bleary philosophers, phantasts and
adventurers--they set up a veritable witches' chorus.
Pages:
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342