You Take Delight Not In A City's

Sometimes One Who Thinks Himself Incomplete Is Merely Young.

Each New Clarice, Compact As A Living Body With Its Smells And Its Breath, Shows Off, Like A Gem, What Remains Of The Ancient Clarices, Fragmentary And Dead.

The Word Connects The Visible Trace With The Invisible Thing, The Absent Thing, The Thing That Is Desired Or Feared, Like A Frail Emergency Bridge Flung Over An Abyss.

Cities, Like Dreams, Are Made Of Desires And Fears.

The City, However, Does Not Tell Its Past, But Contains It Like The Lines Of A Hand, Written In The Corners Of The Streets, The Gratings Of The Windows, The Banisters Of The Steps, The Antennae Of The Lightning Rods, The Poles Of The Flags, Every Segment Marked In Turn With Scratches, Indentations, Scrolls.