I've noticed a theme in Alan Lightman's work lately: it's all middle-aged men who feel hidebound by life but terrified of death. It's not good for me at this juncture, but I flatly adore his writing style. I should not finish Ghost, but I probably will anyway because I have no sense.
y al que teme la muerte la llevará por sus hombrosI would like
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-B.
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It's from "Ciudad sin sueño", The Unsleeping City, which is one of my favorite poems.
The bit I'm thinking of, Alphabet City in the Lower East Side, kind of feels like a carnival after hours. Lots of garish neon, garish people, garbage in the streets, no numbered grid streets. Plenty of bars still open but nowhere you have any reason to be if you're not drinking with a crowd.
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