Simon Schama

For one afternoon, at least, it was grievously simple: Britons and Americans gathered, indivisibly, to mourn a shared massacre.
No terrorist attack in history had ever claimed more British lives: 67. So it seemed right that a dark Manchester drizzle was falling on Fifth Avenue on September 20 as mourners - and we were all mourners - climbed the steps of St Thomas's church, a piece of pure Barsetshire dropped into midtown Manhattan.
The usual suspects filed in: the Clintons; Kofi Annan, Mayor Giuliani, Governor Pataki. But before Tony and Cherie Blair arrived, a side door beside the choir opened and the British bereaved walked in to take their pews at the front of the church.
At once the brittle stylishness of the city collapsed into pathos.