I won't pretend anything approaching objectivity, here. I read Colson Whitehead's The Colossus of New York on the flight back to California, after six months of utter bliss on sabbatical in New York City. I was filled with sorrow, torn from the only place where I have ever truly and completely felt at home, at ease, amongst "my people" -- loud, brash, argumentative, filled to the brim and overflowing with life!
A few days before we left, we stopped into a local bookshop, around the corner from our apartment in Morningside Heights. They have a section of "local interest." It was there that I found The Colossus. Some sections celebrate the best of the City. Some revel in the grim and grit. As I loved every street, every pothole, every broken curb, I loved every page of this love song to the one and only New York. Whitehead could have been writing the words of my heart:
I never got a chance to say good-bye to some of my old buildings. Some I lived in, others were part of a skyline I thought would always be there. And they never got a chance to say good-bye to me. I think they would have liked to--I refuse to believe in their indifference. You say you know these streets pretty well? The city knows you better.
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