when i first picked up "a winter's tale" by mark helprin (the "other side of the spectrum" political one is spelled differently), i was totally enchanted by the very first paragraphs.
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There was a white horse, on a quiet winter morning when snow covered the streets gently and was not deep, and the sky was swept with vibrant stars, except in the east, where dawn was beginning in a light blue flood. The air was motionless, but would soon start to move as the sun came up and winds from Canada came charging down the Hudson.as a new yorker who loved exploring all of manhattan and it's history and as someone who had just bought a "white horse" (well, technically, a grey), i continued to read, intrigued.The Winter's Tale, by Mark Helprin, 1983, p 3
continue with me below the collected orange drift to see why.
