In this chap­ter titled Towns in Colour, intro­duces a vivid med­i­ta­tion on urban life, emo­tion, and per­cep­tion through a tapes­try of con­trast­ing images. The nar­ra­tive invites read­ers to nav­i­gate a series of scenes where mood, space, and col­or reflect both exter­nal real­i­ties and inter­nal respons­es. From the start, the setting—a dark­ened church echo­ing with Latin hymns—establishes a tone of solemn rit­u­al and human help­less­ness in the face of death. As priests chant and incense thick­ens the air, the body at the altar remains unmoved, high­light­ing how cer­e­mo­ny often fails to bridge the exis­ten­tial divide. The can­dles’ glow and the organ’s growl merge into a sen­so­ry dirge, each ele­ment empha­siz­ing the sym­bol­ic futil­i­ty of sacred acts when con­front­ed with silence from the depart­ed. This moment marks the begin­ning of a jour­ney through lay­ered, sym­bol­ic town­scapes that blend sound, col­or, and social reflec­tion to explore how humans process life, death, and the spaces in between.

When the nar­ra­tive shifts from this sacred gloom to a shop win­dow, the tone piv­ots sharply. Towns in Colour sud­den­ly offers an image both star­tling and invigorating—red slip­pers gleam­ing behind the glass, defy­ing the grey sleet swirling on the side­walk out­side. Their hue is intense, almost rebel­lious, burst­ing with vital­i­ty amid the life­less­ness of a rainy street. The red bleeds into the viewer’s con­scious­ness like a mem­o­ry refus­ing to fade, a vivid mark of desire and life against an oth­er­wise drab rou­tine. These slip­pers don’t mere­ly catch the eye—they claim emo­tion­al ter­ri­to­ry, sug­gest­ing how even small flash­es of beau­ty can dis­rupt emo­tion­al dull­ness. That brief encounter mir­rors how ordi­nary objects—if ren­dered in contrast—can evoke long­ing, even hope, with­in an oth­er­wise col­or­less rou­tine.

From this moment of sat­u­rat­ed visu­al inten­si­ty, the sto­ry car­ries the read­er into the struc­tured monot­o­ny of Thompson’s Lunch Room. White dom­i­nates this scene—not the pure white of inno­cence, but the func­tion­al, imper­son­al white of tile, nap­kins, and porce­lain. Every motion, from slic­ing bread to serv­ing cof­fee, is crisp and mechan­i­cal, echo­ing the tem­po of dai­ly urban exis­tence. The col­or palette here is delib­er­ate; it sig­ni­fies not seren­i­ty but steril­i­ty, a sense of san­i­tized order that ren­ders the lunch­room both reli­able and life­less. Here, peo­ple don’t connect—they move. Even their ges­tures feel rehearsed, mut­ed by rou­tine. This space rep­re­sents a kind of emo­tion­al detach­ment com­mon in fast-paced city life, where rit­u­als replace reflec­tion and col­or is sub­dued into func­tion­al­i­ty.

The nar­ra­tive’s jour­ney con­tin­ues into the glow­ing deca­dence of An Opera House, where gold reigns—not just in the gild­ed bal­conies and dec­o­ra­tive flour­ish­es but in the man­ner­isms of the audi­ence. In this envi­ron­ment, col­or sig­ni­fies class. The gold is not warm or celebratory—it is heavy, ornate, and alien­at­ing. Every detail reflects not artis­tic appre­ci­a­tion but wealth per­form­ing itself. The opera’s soar­ing arias are drowned beneath the weight of dia­monds, tai­lored coats, and the dull roar of social com­par­i­son. Rather than art ele­vat­ing its audi­ence, the atmos­phere turns art into a back­drop for van­i­ty. This gold-laden world iso­lates more than it con­nects, show­ing how the pur­suit of beau­ty can some­times be smoth­ered by spec­ta­cle and pre­tense.

After the blind­ing shine fades, the sto­ry takes read­ers into the rhythm of State Street, rain-soaked and filled with move­ment. Umbrel­las tilt, coats cling to legs, and foot­steps beat a path into anonymi­ty. The city here isn’t hostile—it’s indif­fer­ent. The peo­ple blur into a col­lec­tive tide, sug­gest­ing how urban spaces can both crowd and iso­late. There is no spot­light in the rain—only motion, rep­e­ti­tion, and the cold mur­mur of com­merce. It’s a por­trait of a soci­ety in motion with­out direc­tion, where moments pass unno­ticed and con­nec­tion dis­solves beneath the hum of street­cars and wet shoes. This is a town with­out col­or, or per­haps one where col­or has been washed away.

Then, the tone soft­ens in An Aquar­i­um, a space where move­ment becomes silent and col­or turns flu­id, lumi­nous, and alive. Here, in fil­tered light and water-etched glass, fish glide with a calm that seems untouched by the noise out­side. The urban world fades as the aquar­i­um becomes a con­tem­pla­tive refuge—a space where time slows, emo­tions steady, and one can sim­ply observe with­out judg­ment. Blues, sil­vers, and greens blend in har­mo­ny, cre­at­ing an envi­ron­ment of qui­et tran­scen­dence. The con­trast to the bustling city is stark: here, beau­ty does not demand atten­tion, it invites reflec­tion. It reminds the read­er that even with­in arti­fi­cial bound­aries, there can be a close­ness to nature, and in that close­ness, a rare kind of peace.

Through each scene, Towns in Colour builds a nuanced com­men­tary on mod­ern life’s emo­tion­al and aes­thet­ic land­scapes. The chap­ter uses col­or not as orna­ment but as psy­cho­log­i­cal insight—red for desire, white for steril­i­ty, gold for pre­ten­sion, grey for monot­o­ny, and blue for seren­i­ty. These shift­ing palettes allow the city to become more than setting—it becomes char­ac­ter, mir­ror­ing the com­plex­i­ty of those who live with­in it. What begins in the shad­ow of death ends in qui­et life beneath the sur­face of water, sug­gest­ing that mean­ing is found not in the noise of spec­ta­cle but in qui­et, often over­looked cor­ners of expe­ri­ence. Through this rich­ly lay­ered jour­ney, the nar­ra­tive affirms that col­or, whether lit­er­al or sym­bol­ic, remains one of the truest reflec­tions of what it means to feel human in a crowd­ed world.