It is hard to take it seriously. Under awnings the papers lie in heaps, delivered by trucks. It is impossible to tear oneself away from this spectacle. At midnight those leaving the theaters drink a last soda. Puddles of rain stand cooling.
Poor people scavenge bones.
In all directions is a labyrinth of trains suffocated by vaults. There is no hope, your eyes are not accustomed to seeing such things. They are starting to evolve an American gait out of the cautious steps of the Indians on the paths of empty Manhattan. Maybe it only seems that way. Her latest book, The Annie Dillard Reader , will be published next fall.