There is something in the Gothic stones of the Brooklyn Bridge that sounds like the word Roebling, a happy coincidence because, as history would have it, a number of broad-chested hairy-armed musclemen with that name were heavily involved in its heavy construction, its sturdy cathedral-ness; Busanian legend has it that angels were the architects who labored over the raising of the Gwangan Bridge. No one talks about it but everyone notices the strange quality the bridge has during the daytime when nothing seems to support it, and when it seems to be part of Asia’s massive clouds, or made of them. Squint at sunset and white feathers may be seen.
So much for the day, with its awkwardly wobbling waterskiers and its tumbling surf, in which worthless yellow bills, little seashells, and brown-churned up dirt mingle against the hairy legs of foreigners. Night is a neon affair. The primped, lumpy businessmen who funded the project seemed to be after the sinful gaudiness of Las Vegas when they opted to light up the bridge with poshlusty purples and sickening greens that fade and shift as fast as the hues of those frightened jellyfish who lurk about in the dark a mile beneath the ocean’s surface; it is safe to blame this on none other than the devil.