Walking the streets of Charleston in the late afternoons of August was like walking through gauze or inhaling damaged silk.

There is no city on Earth quite like Charleston. From the time I first came there in 1961, it’s held me in its enchanter’s power, the wordless articulation of its singularity, its withheld and magical beauty. Wandering through its streets can be dreamlike and otherworldly, its alleyways and shortcuts both fragrant and mysterious, yet as haunted as time turned in on itself.

Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration, like an albino. LIke the albino it has no protective coloration. White. That is the color. Those placid, untroubled winter months are different shades of white in my memory, unsullied, and pure. But nature in the temperate zones is bitter towards all things white.

No city could be more beautiful than Charleston during the brief reign of azaleas, no city on earth.

Beautiful cities have a treacherous nature.