Monday, July 5, 2010

Dos Passos wrote...

"Dusk gently smooths crisptangled streets. Dark presses tight the steaming asphalt city, crushes the fret work of windows and lettered signs and chimneys and water tanks and ventilators and fire escapes and moldings and patterns and corrugations and eyes and hands and neckties into blue chunks, and into enormous black blocks. Under the rolling rolling heavier heavier pressure windows blurt light. Night crushes bright milk out of arclights, squeezes the sullen blocks until they drip red, yellow, green into streets resounding with feet. All the asphalt oozes light. Light spurts from lettering on roofs, mills dizzily among wheels, stains rolling tons of sky."

"A mildewed scrap of moon came out from behind the clouds for a minute, made tinfoil of a bit of broken glass in a gaping window, picked out the little rounded leaves of the locust  and rolled like a lost dime, into a crack in the clouds."

image of Dos Passos stolen from

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