Ny City Quotes

LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; NY gets god-awful cold in the winter but there's a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. LA is a jungle.

When you’re in The System, like after being arrested, you’re no longer a participant. You’re being processed. Instead of an easy to ignore, well-greased cog, you become a sharp edge that needs to be ground down.

It (NY) was like the city that Lot left behind and it would dissolve if it ever began looking backward over its own shoulder. Two pillars of salt. Long Island and New Jersey.

Wheeler, P., and H. E. Rives. Dome of Many-Coloured Glass. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1955.

Montaigne also detected the agency problem, or why the last thing a doctor needs is for you to be healthy: “No doctor derives pleasure from the health of his friends, wrote the ancient Greek satirist, no soldier from the peace of his city, etc.” (Nul médecin ne prent plaisir à la santé de ses amis mesmes, dit l’ancien Comique Grec, ny soldat à la paix de sa ville: ainsi du reste.)

It is said that you are a New Yorker the moment you remember the way New York used to be. This miraculous place lives to obliterate its history. It is history as fashion. Trend. Moments. Moments lost and... overwritten. You have to hunt the past in NY. Not like Prague. Budapest. Krakow. Paris. Istanbul. These places wear their pasts with honor over their hearts. A woman. Not a girl. New York... is youth. Always trying on new masks, new faces.

I always wondered what it would be like to see this city as a tourist. I have to believe that NY always lives up to its reputation. The buildings really are that tall, the lights really are that bright, there's truly a story on every corner. But it still might be a shock to realize you're just one story walking among millions. To not feel the bright lights even as they fill the air. To see the tall buildings and only feel a deep longing for the stars.

Imperial is like Robert Caro’s The Power Broker with the attitude of Mike Davis’s City of Quartz, if Robert Caro had been raised in an abandoned grain silo by a band of feral raccoons, and if Mike Davis were the communications director of a heavily armed libertarian survivalist cult, and if the two of them had somehow managed to stitch John McPhee’s cortex onto the brain of a Gila monster, which they then sent to the Mexican border to conduct ten years of immersive research, and also if they wrote the entire manuscript on dried banana leaves with a toucan beak dipped in hobo blood, and then the book was line-edited during a 36-hour peyote séance by the ghosts of John Steinbeck, Jack London, and Sinclair Lewis, with 200 pages of endnotes faxed over by Henry David Thoreau’s great-great-great-great grandson from a concrete bunker under a toxic pond behind a maquiladora, and if at the last minute Herman Melville threw up all over the manuscript, rendering it illegible, so it had to be re-created from memory by a community-theater actor doing his best impression of Jack Kerouac. With photographs by Dorothea Lange. (Viking has my full blessing to use that as a blurb.)

I have this dream in which I am standing on the subway platform and the train is delayed. It has taken entirely too long in coming. And I think maybe, just maybe, I should leave the station and look for a taxi. But I am afraid that the moment I leave, the train will come. When people do ask why I haven’t left New York, this is my best answer... what I do know is that I will leave NY with different dreams than this with which I first arrived. Smaller dreams, simpler dreams - an extra set of hands.

„w Kalifornii nie trzeba mieć domu, bo nigdy nie jest zimno” mówi Slim i śmieje się radośnie. „Rany w życiu nie widziałaś takich ślicznych słonecznych dni, że przez większość roku nawet nie potrzeba płaszcza ani węgla do ogrzewania domu ani zimowych butów ani nic. I nigdy nie umiera się z gorąca w lecie tam na północy we frisco i Oakland i okolicach. Mówię ci, to jest miejsce do życia. I nie da się już pojechać dalej w Ameryce, zostaje tylko woda i Rosja”. „A co jest złego w Nowym Jorku?” warczy matka Sheili. „Och, nic!” Slim pokazuje na okno, „Ocean Atlantycki przynosi diabelne wiatry w zimie i jakiś szatański syn przenosi te wiatry na ulice, tak że człowiek może zamarznąć na progu. Bóg zawiesił słonce nad wyspą Manhattan, ale diabeł nie wpuści go w twoje okno, chyba że kupisz sobie mieszkanie w domu wysokim na mile, ale wtedy nawet nie można wyjść odetchnąć powietrzem, bo można spaść tę milę na dół, o ile w ogóle cię stać na takie mieszkanie. Można pracować, ale wtedy w ogóle nie ma się czasu, bo osiem godzin pracy to dwanaście bo trzeba doliczyć te wszystkie metra, autobusy, windy, tunele, promy, schody i znowu windy i jeszcze czekanie, bo to wielkie i beznadziejne miasto. Ale nie, w Nowym Jorku nie ma nic złego.

Le monde n’est pas divisé en deux catégories. Il n’y a pas d’un côté les gens uniques et de l’autre les gens ordinaires. Tout le monde est capable de devenir extraordinaire. Du moment qu’on a une âme et un libre arbitre, on peut tout faire, tout choisir.

Nous sommes tous des fragments de nos souvenirs. Nous gardons en nous les angoisses et les espoirs des gens qui nous aiment. Tant que l’amour et les souvenirs subsistent, il n’y a pas de véritable perte.

When I look at President Trump, I see what happens to someone that lives in a dense city environment with expansive views of the toxic urban infrastructure.

Billy Reynolds, of Engine Co. 76, mentioned that a lot of firefighters were probably going to die today, and no one could argue the point. In fact, we let his comment just hang there in the room for a while, none of us saying anything, each of us lost in our own private thoughts, wondering which of our brothers we were about to lose, if it would be one of us.

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Enjoy your cinnafucks!

I clicked the obituary, my heart pounding. " 'Alice Roussard passed away on February 8, 2008. She was 87,' " I read. Caterina tapped her fingers against the desk. "Bingo." " 'Alice is survived by her husband Benjamin and three daughters,' " I continued. " 'Lisette Greenfeld of Kansas City, KS; Vi Lipniki of Poughkeepsie, NY; and Rosaline Warner of Saint Louis, MO.' " "Ha! No wonder you were having trouble getting anywhere with Roussard. Benjamin had three daughters, all of whom changed their names." "Well, now we've got them." "Saint Louis is within driving distance, Etta. If we found a number or e-mail for Rosaline..." "It's certainly worth a try," I said, clicking to a new browser window. I typed in Rosaline Warner's name and hit Enter. "Would you look at that," Cat said when we reviewed the results. I couldn't help but chuckle as well. Link after link featured Rosaline Warner, the James Beard Award-winning pastry chef and proprietress of the Feisty Baguette. "Genetics," I said. "They'll getcha every time.

State Senator Kemble made a speech opposing any enlargement of the NY&H’s capital. When the news of impending scarcity hit Wall Street, the price of Harlem stock rose. At the top of the market, Kemble’s broker sold short. Kemble then pushed a bill through the legislature enlarging Harlem’s capital, and the price plummeted. As these were early days, and such behavior was still considered inappropriate, Kemble was expelled from the Senate.

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Cambridge or Boston. The same urban tech migration is playing out in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle, and New York City as some of the hottest tech companies in those areas establish themselves in downtown offices. For example, Twitter Inc. is headquartered in the gritty Mid-Market neighborhood in San Francisco, and the crowdfunding site Kickstarter Inc. opened its headquarters in the Greenpoint section of Brooklyn, N.Y. “It didn’t surprise me that young people wanted to move back to the city, because cities are fun,’’ said Richard Florida, director of the Martin Prosperity Institute at the University of Toronto. “What really surprised me was this move among tech firms back to the cities.

Nada had been picked up from Disneyland by a military helicopter and flown to Edwards Air Force Base in the high desert where the Blackswift awaited. It was the fastest way to get him to NY, and they were going to try something experimental. Nada had still been in enough shock from his memory opening up that he’d acquiesced, not that they were going to give him any choice. They’d shoved him in the pod and assured him he’d be ejected 35,000 feet above New York City, a drogue chute would open and slow the pod to a survivable speed, the pod would split and then he could HALO parachute the rest of the way to the ground. Seriously. Sounded good in theory. Often theories are postulated by those who don’t have to end up being the test dummy. Nada had his own theory, not quite a Nada Yada yet, that it should be a rule that whoever came up with something should have to test it personally.

And so they went to faraway places like San Francisco, California, and Washington, DC, and Richmond, VA. And New York City, NY. And they never saw one another and they did what everyone does, they started living the same old boring fucking story. It's a story full of death and dying, living and life, tits and ass and balls and dicks and pussy. It's an old, old, old story that always begins – they begat and they begat and they begat. Now a million crazy babies explode from our smiles and start running all over the world so wild and screaming, Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! SHIT!

Schuster, 1983. ———. The Supreme Commander: The War Years of General Dwight D. Eisenhower. New York: Doubleday, 1970. Ambrose, Stephen E., and Richard H. Immerman. Ike’s Spies: Eisenhower and the Espionage Establishment. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1981. Ankrum, Homer. Dogfaces Who Smiled Through Tears. Lake Mills, Ia.: Graphic Publishing, 1987. Armstrong, Anne. Unconditional Surrender. New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1961. Arnbal, Anders Kjar. The Barrel-Land Dance Hall Rangers. New York: Vantage Press, 1993. Ashcraft, Howard D. As You Were: Cannon Company, 34th Infantry Division, 168th Infantry Regiment. Richmond, Va.: Ashcraft Enterprises, 1990. Astor, Gerald. The Greatest War: Americans in Combat, 1941–1945. Novato, Calif.: Presidio, 1999. Auphan, Paul, and Jacques Mordal. The French Navy in World War II. Trans. A.C.J. Sabalot. Annapolis: United States

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...Maybe the ones who married for the wrong reasons are the ones who don't make it. And the ones who married out of pure love are the ones who stand the test of time." "People get married because they're in love with the fantasy of marriage. The illusion of the happily-ever-after fairy tale we've all been sold since the beginning of time." I dust some sand of my pants, "Why does anyone do anything? Because they want the fantasy of what that thing represents. Why did you move from Nebraska to New York? Was it the fantasy of a glamorous life in one of the most famous cities in the world? The promise of success? The excitement of a fast-paced life? Somewhere along the line, someone sold you on the fantasy of life in the Big Apple, and you bought it. It's not that much different than marriage, in a way. You just committed to a city instead of a person.

[smart scientist (Climberg??)] and his team built an artificial intelligence system. They fed it the same information that prosecutors had given judges in those arraignment cases. Information such as the defendant's age and criminal record. They told the AI to go through those 550,000 cases and make its own list of 400,000 people to release. It was a bake-off - man vs machine... who's list committed the fewest crimes committed while out on bail and was most likely to show up for their trial date? The results weren't even close. The people on the computer's list were 25% less likely to commit a crime.. than the 400,000 people released by the judges of NY City.

Bel's got a crush on NY1's Pat Kiernan, so he watches news every morning on the TV in the common area.

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and she giggled as she walked against the current of bodies in the crosswalk. The subway was right there, but she didn’t want to take it yet—the beauty of New York City was walking, was serendipity and strangers, and it was still her birthday, and so she was just going to keep going. Alice turned and walked up Eighth, past the crummy tourist shops selling magnets and keychains and i ♥ ny T-shirts and foam fingers shaped like the Statue of Liberty. Alice had walked for almost ten blocks when she realized she had a destination. She and Sam and their friends had enjoyed many, many hours in bars as teenagers: they’d spent nights at the Dublin House, on 79th Street; at the Dive Bar, on Amsterdam and 96th Street, with the neon sign shaped like bubbles, though that one was a little too close to home to be safe; and some of the fratty bars farther down Amsterdam, the ones with the buckets of beers for twenty dollars and scratched pool tables. Sometimes they even went to some NYU bars downtown, on MacDougal Street, where they could dash across the street for falafel and then go back to the bar, like it was their office and they were running out for lunch. Their favorite bar, though, was Matryoshka, a Russian-themed bar in the 50th Street 1/9 subway station. Now it was just the 1 train, but back then, there was also the 9. Things were always changing, even when they didn’t feel like it. Alice wondered if no one ever felt as old as they were because it happened so slowly, and you were only ever one day slower and creakier, and the world changed so gradually that by the time cars had evolved from boxy to smooth, or green taxis had joined yellow ones, or MetroCards had replaced tokens, you were used to it. Everyone

The 150 years old elm trees are blossoming beautifully in the warm and pleasant spring breezes. There are plentiful International tourists roaming to and from, with gleeful facial expressions of satisfied expectations, while in the mist of their expeditions.

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With little else to do I rode my Vesper motor scooter from Harbel to Roberts Field. Perhaps there might be some excitement around the airport, but no such luck. Eric Reeves the Station Master and Air Traffic Controller was in the tower and was in communications with the incoming airliner. Everything was quiet in anticipation of a Pan American Clipper's arrival. On the ground floor all was quiet except for a solitary passenger in the terminal. Apparently he was waiting for the next flight out, which wasn't due for another two hours. As I approached him, I could see that he looked familiar…. I immediately recognized him as a world class trumpet player and gravel voiced singer from New Orleans. He must have seen the look on my face and broke the ice by introducing himself as Louie Armstrong. "Hi," I answered, "I'm Hank Bracker, Captain Hank Bracker." I noticed that he was apparently alone sitting there with a mountain of belongings which obviously included musical instruments. Here was Louis Armstrong, the famous Louie Armstrong, all alone in this dusty, hot terminal, and yes he had a big white handkerchief! He volunteered that the others in his party were at the club looking for something to eat. With no one else around, we talked about New Orleans, his music and how someone named King Oliver, a person I had never heard of, was his mentor. At the time I didn't know much about Dixie Land music or the Blues, but talking to Louie Armstrong was a thrill I'll never forget. In retrospect it’s amazing to find out that you don’t know what you didn’t know. I found out that he actually lived in Queens, NY at that time, not too far from where my aunt and uncle lived. I also found out that he was the Good Will Ambassador at Large and represented the United States on a tour that included Europe and Africa, but now he was just a friendly person I had the good fortune to meet, under these most unusual circumstances. His destination was Ghana where he, his wife and his band the All Stars group were scheduled to perform a concert in the capitol city of Accra. Little did I know that the tour he was on was scheduled by Edward R. Murrow, who would later be my neighbor in Pawling, New York. Although our time together was limited, it was obvious that he had compassion for the people of the "Third World Nations," and wanted to help them. Although after our short time together, I never saw Louie again but I just know that he did. He seemed to be the type of person that could bring sunshine with him wherever he went.…

President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who was born in 1882, was considered a hero in Jersey City, although I don’t think that my parents saw him that way. He was born in Dutchess County, NY to a prominent Dutch family and, much later, when I lived in Pawling, New York, I got to know his son, Franklin Roosevelt, Jr. What I remember most vividly, was walking up and down Nelson Avenue on April 12, 1945, announcing that the President had died in Warm Springs, Georgia. I was not yet eleven years old when I followed the details of the transfer of power to Harry S. Truman, who succeeded him to the presidency. Over a year had passed since American troops had landed in Italy and started reclaiming Europe. Hitler committed suicide and Germany surrendered to the Allies a few days later on May 7, 1945, freeing me from the unfounded suspicion of being a Nazi and part of the evil empire in the eyes of my schoolmates.

I never feel as fully awake as when I’m in NY.

Almost no one loves (NY) but everyone lies about it.

Upstate New York is anywhere north of New York City.

Flo n'avait pas l'air conditionné, c'était trop cher, en revanche elle avait beaucoup de livres. Ses étagères en étaient remplies, il n'y restait plus un centimètre libre. Les voir la rassurait et la calmait. Elle en avait lu une majorité, mais il y en avait encore beaucoup à lire, ce qui suscitait chez elle une certaine excitation et lui évoquait un de ses mots préférés en japonais, tsundoku – un terme sans équivalent dans d'autres langues : acheter des livres et les entasser sur une étagère sans les lire.