“Coming into New York” – John Updike‏

by richibi

 "The Black City l (New York)" - William Congdon

The Black City l (New York) (1949)

William Congdon

________

at he other end of the continent from
Vancouver there’s New York, perhaps
not [t]he most liveable city on the
planet
but at one point the very
centre of the world, I know, I was
there, Liverpool, with even the
Beatles, had nothing on New York
City then

but that’s before Reaganomics and
Margaret Thatcher, since, Milan,
Tokyo, other cities have gotten into
the act, dulling some of New York’s
resplendence, glamour, magic

from the airport, rather than Updike‘s
Providence, the city buzzes with an
energy for me that’s electric, the
horizon sizzles already with a current
I feel in my skin, like watching bacon
fry, it commands your attention, all
grey, of course, with the washed out
colours of commercial advertisements
the size of buildings lining intermittently
the road in

New York seems a furnace, and it is,
whipping up Dante’s Inferno in all of
its myriad avenues and cells, but also
giving you flashes of Paradiso just
around any corner, the work of
inspiration, imagination, serendipity
and good will, the other side of the
infinitely variable human condition

here’s John Updike‘s equally idiosyncratic
picture of his coming home, however
more apocalyptic

Richard

_________________

Coming into New York

After Providence, Connecticut—
the green defiant landscape, unrelieved
except by ordered cities, smart and smug,
in spirit villages, too full of life
to be so called, too small to seem sincere.
And then like Death it comes upon us:
the plain of steaming trash, the tinge of brown
that colors now the trees and grass as though
exposed to rays sent from the core of heat—
these are the signs we see in retrospect.
But we look up amazed and wonder that
the green is gone out of our window, that
horizon on all sides is segmented
into so many tiny lines that we
mistake it for the profile of a wooded
hill against the sky, or that as far
as mind can go are buildings, paving, streets.
The tall ones rise into the mist like gods
serene and watchful, yet we fear, for we
have witnessed from this train the struggle to
complexity: the leaf has turned to stone.

John Updike

 

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