10 and 11.9.1931"Contrary to the sunny custom of this bright city, the successive rows of houses, the empty lots, the ragged outline of roads and buildings have, since early morning, been wrapped in a light blanket of mist that the sun has slowly turned gold. Towards midmorning the soft fog began to unravel and, tenuously, in shadowing gusts like the lifting of veils, to vanish. By ten o’clock, the only remaining evidence of the vanished mist was a slight hesitancy in the blue of the sky.
As the mask of veils fell away, the features of the city were reborn. The day, which had already dawned, dawned anew, as if a window had suddenly flung open. The noises in the streets took a slightly different quality, as if they too had only just appeared. A blueness insinuated itself even into the cobblestones and the impersonal auras of the passers-by. The sun was hot but gave off a humid heat as if infiltrated by the now non-existent mist.
I’ve always found the awakening of a city, whether wreathed in mists or not, more moving than sunrise in the country. There is a stronger sense of rebirth, more to look forward to; the sun, instead of merely illuminating the fields, the silhouettes of trees and the open palms of leaves with first dark than liquid light and finally with pure luminous gold, multiplies its every effect in windows, on walls, on roofs […]. Seeing dawn in the countryside does me good, seeing dawn in the city affects me both good and ill and therefore does me even more good. For the greater hope it brings me, it contains, as does all hope, the far-off, nostalgic aftertaste of unreality. Dawn in the countryside just exists; dawn in the city overflows with promise. One makes you live, the other makes you think. And, along with all the other great unfortunates, I’ve always believe it better to think than to live."
The Book of Disquiet, Bernardo Soares
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