On the train to see Professor Graves, riding across a raised trestle track, I witnessed a stretch of flat clayfield bordered by dark squat buildings, ugly clumps of boxy shingled things. I sighed, saddened by the waste of design, lack of ingenuity and the immense number of soulless structures thrown together every year. It rattled me in an unexpected way and, staring out at winter clouds hanging low over the desolate landscape, I choked up with a deep sense of loss. I was relieved as darkness came and the train pulled into my station. The evening had turned frigid. There was an old Plymouth, rust-spotted and without a back bumper, hovering in the parking lot. A dark wiry man hopped out and waved to me.
“Taxi?” he said loudly. He smiled as I approached. He had no front teeth, no coat despi
