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.
Free books and the smell of hyacinth in the evening air.
Maybe there’s hope.