New York City's Bryant Park is lovely on a summer evening. Back-lit by the warm glow of the New York Public Library, the park's green lawn spreads across the square, empty save for a sprinkler system and a sign or two asking people to keep off the grass. And people do. But they gather at its edges, like spectators at a game that will never be played, talking quietly or simply staring. At what? I can tell you that they are looking at something, but that something is the absence of everything. The lush green grass and the fathomless empty space above it--through which a few bats swoop noiselessly--is a novelty in New York.