About the book: 1951 / Surely no one has ever crossed a bridge in such bad weather at night. The rain, fine and frequent, almost like fog, with a cold gray shroud, fenced me off from the whole world, from the pale faces behind the fogged, rain-wet windows of the cars flying past me, cutting the water on the asphalt with their wheels. Even the bright night lights of Manhattan barely glowed with a blurry yellow a spot through the veil of rain. Somewhere down there I left my car and walked, raising the collar of my raincoat and pulling my head into my shoulders, into the darkness of the night stretching out before me. I walked and smoked cigarette after cigarette, threw cigarette butts in front of me and watched them, describing an arc, fall on wet asphalt. Outside the windows of the houses, life went on as usual, but I didn’t notice anything. Those few people who, like me, found themselves outside in this inclement weather, looked with curiosity from their sheltered entrances at me, a man walking alone in the rain along the wet sidewalk. I felt their gazes, breaking away from my painful thoughts...