The Atlas

William T Vollmann

Scissoring legs and shadows scudding like clouds across the marble proved destiny in action, for the people who rushed through this concourse came from the rim of everywhere to be ejaculated everywhere, redistributing themselves without reference to each other. A few, like the small girl who sat on the stairs holding her bald baby doll, or the lady who stopped, shifted the strap of her handbag, and gazed at the departure times for the New Haven Line, delayed judgment (and an executive paused in his descent of the steps, snorted at the girl’s doll, and said: I thought that baby was real!). But no one stayed here, except the souls without homes. Above the information kiosk, the hands of the illuminated clock circled all the directions, and condensed into meaningless animal sounds. There was a circle and its spokes were their trajectories. But the circle turned! They did not understand the strangeness of that. Creased black trousers, naked brown legs, merciless knees, skirts and jeans, overalls swollen tight with floating testicles, paisley handbags passing as smoothly as magic carpets, these made noise, had substance, but the place become more and more empty as I sat there, because none of it was for anything but itself. The belt of brass flowers that crossed the ceiling’s belly meant something, made the place more like a church; the tunnels where the trains stretched themselves out, gleaming their lights, were the catacombs. One of those passageways went to the Montrealer, my favorite train. Canada’s railroads continued north from Montreal, which was why when I peered into that tunnel (I’d ridden the Montrealer so many times, and wouldn’t anymore), it was almost as if I could see all the way to Hudson Bay; one Canadian National sleeper did still went to Churchill--