New York

by Edward Rutherfurd

Manna hata: it was an Indian name. So far as he knew, it just meant “the Island.” The place was a narrow peninsula, really; except that at its northern tip, a small, steep gorge allowed a channel of water from the North River to snake round into the long island’s sound, converting the peninsula of Manhattan, technically, into an island. Had it not been for the great breakwater of the long island protecting its ocean side, Manhattan would have been exposed to the full force of the Atlantic. But thanks to this happy circumstance, as the North River came down to the tip of Manhattan, it entered a splendid, sheltered harbor about four miles wide and seven long—a spacious anchorage known to mariners as the Upper Bay. Better yet, as one passed through the narrows at the harbor’s southern end to encounter the Atlantic, two huge sandbars, one on each side, served as outer breakwaters against the ocean swell, creating the calm waters of the Lower Bay, so vast that all the ships in the world could well have lain at anchor there. “It’s the gateway to the north,”

He changed the name of the town to New York, on account of the Duke of York owning it, and the territory around he called Yorkshire.

Even the Depression couldn’t keep them down. That was it, Charlie thought. That was the point of New York. Immigrants came here penniless, but they made it all the same.

Garbage. Piles of black garbage bags all over the sidewalk. Garbage as far as the eye could see. New York: city of strikes.

Two words: the one an invitation, the other an ideal, an adventure, a necessity. “Imagine” said the garden. “Freedom” said the tower. Imagine freedom. That was the spirit, the message of this city he loved. You really didn’t need anything more. Dream it and do it. But first you must dream it. Imagine. Freedom. Always.