Bryant Park. Frenchified oasis of a park (except that, unlike parks in Paris, here you can sit on the grass). Little green chairs that no one steals; a fountain; a carousel; the black-and-gold American Radiator Building (now the Bryant Park Hotel) gleaming through the trees.
And tonight, after a brilliant three hours of “Mary Stuart,” as I walked through the park from the from the clotted tourist hell of Times Square to the subway, I saw…books. On carts. Just right out there for people to read. The Reading Room en pleine air.
Tables and chairs reserved for readers – even smal
l readers:
Carts with magazines and newspapers – and “moderator” who is there apparently to recommend books and cover things up if it rains.
Free.
Free books and the smell of hyacinth in the evening air.
Maybe there’s hope.
Of course there’s hope! It’s not only in the hyacinths but also in this week’s fragrant debut of lilac, lilies of the valley, viburnam, crabapple, dogwood, and other sweet-smellers. If the air is this enchanting there must be hope ahead. Right?