Sf City Quotes

A city's only ever three hot meals away from anarchy.

The columns of mounted men moved forward, passed out through the gates of the Palace of Karma, turned off the roadway and headed up the slope that lay to the southeast of the city of Mahartha, comrades blazing like the dawn at their back.

That air of electric tension, of a great city on the edge of an abyss, is more noticeable than ever at the White Russian cabaret called, not inappropriately, "New York." You wouldn't know you were in China. An almond-eyed platinum-blonde has just finished wailing, with a Mott Street accent, "You're gonna lose your gal." ("Jane Brown's Body")

A raging, glowering full moon had come up, was peering down over the side of the sky well above the patio. That was the last thing she saw as she leaned for a moment, inert with fatigue, against the doorway of the room in which her child lay. Then she dragged herself in to topple headlong upon the bed and, already fast asleep, to circle her child with one protective arm, moving as if of its own instinct. Not the meek, the pallid, gentle moon of home. This was the savage moon that had shone down on Montezuma and Cuauhtemoc, and came back looking for them now. The primitive moon that had once looked down on terraced heathen cities and human sacrifices. The moon of Anahuac. ("The Moon Of Montezuma")

Go to Zillicks down the block. It has three booths at the back. Go in the middle one and wait. When you lamp me turning the pages of the directory outside, shove your money in the return-coin slot and walk out. Take it easy. Don't let the druggist see you. Your stuff'll be there when you go back for it. If you're even a dime short don't show up, it won't do ya no good. Twelve o'clock tonight.' 'Twelve o'clock;' Fisher agreed. They separated. How many a seemingly casual street-corner conversation like that on the city's streets has just such an unguessed, sinister topic. Murder, theft, revenge, narcotics. While the crowd goes by around it unaware. ("I'm Dangerous Tonight")

He just lingers long enough to see his plane put to bed properly, then grabs a cab at the airport-gate. "The Settlement" and forgetting that he's not inland any more, that Shanghai's snappier than Chicago, "Chop-chop." "Sure, Mike," grins the slant-eyed driver. "Hop in." A change has come over the city since he went away, he can feel that the minute they hit the outskirts, clear the congested native sections, and cross the bridge into the Settlement. Shanghai is already tuning-up for its oncoming doom, without knowing it. A city dancing on the brink of the grave. There's an electric tension in the air, the place never seemed so gay, so hectic, as tonight; the roads opening off the Bund a welter of blinking, flashing neon lights, in ideographs and Latin letters alike, as far as the eye can see. Traffic hopelessly snarled at every crossing, cops piping on their whistles, packed sidewalks, the blare of saxophones coming from taxi-dance mills, and overhead the feverish oriental stars competing with inter-crossed searchlight beams from some warships or other on the Whang-poo. Just about the right town and the right night to have fifteen thousand bucks in, all at one time. ("Jane Brown's Body")

„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.

In my introduction to Warriors, the first of our crossgenre anthologies, I talked about growing up in Bayonne, New Jersey, in the 1950s, a city without a single bookstore. I bought all my reading material at newsstands and the corner “candy shops,” from wire spinner racks. The paperbacks on those spinner racks were not segregated by genre. Everything was jammed in together, a copy of this, two copies of that. You might find The Brothers Karamazov sandwiched between a nurse novel and the latest Mike Hammer yarn from Mickey Spillane. Dorothy Parker and Dorothy Sayers shared rack space with Ralph Ellison and J. D. Salinger. Max Brand rubbed up against Barbara Cartland. A. E. van Vogt, P. G. Wodehouse, and H. P. Lovecraft were crammed in with F. Scott Fitzgerald. Mysteries, Westerns, gothics, ghost stories, classics of English literature, the latest contemporary “literary” novels, and, of course, SF and fantasy and horror—you could find it all on that spinner rack, and ten thousand others like it. I liked it that way. I still do. But in the decades since (too many decades, I fear), publishing has changed, chain bookstores have multiplied, the genre barriers have hardened. I think that’s a pity. Books should broaden us, take us to places we have never been and show us things we’ve never seen, expand our horizons and our way of looking at the world. Limiting your reading to a single genre defeats that. It limits us, makes us smaller. It seemed to me, then as now, that there were good stories and bad stories, and that was the only distinction that truly mattered.

The study by energy consultants EnerNex was commissioned by the city’s Local Agency Formation Commission and states the city doesn’t need to contract with an outside company and could easily administer CleanPowerSF through the San Francisco Public Utilities Commission. The often-fractured Board of Supervisors has coalesced around the program, known as community choice aggregation, or CCA, and continued to push for some iteration of it even after the PUC commission last year refused to set rates and bring in Shell Energy North America to be the city’s power broker for at least five years.

The spelunkers of speculative fiction mining phosphorescent filth from the bowels of the city of New Sodom, the Sci-Fi freaks scraping kipple and back from the bins of decades-old shit sandwiches out back, composting it to grow shrooms, we have built this thing to take its place. This is the legacy of generations of writers who’d rather tackle adult themes than pander to puerile power-fantasies, whose interests lay with the soft sciences and humanities as much as with the hard sciences and technology, for whom the fiction was always more important than either the fantasia or the futurology. It is also the legacy of those who simply don’t give a fuck about anything other than either fantasia or futurology. This is fiction in which the envelope has been pushed so far out, from ambition or expedience, that all descriptions and definitions – SCIENCE FICTION, SCIENCE FANTASY, SCI-FI, even speculative fiction – can only be, at best, nominal labels for it. It is the fiction that abandons those labels for a negation of description, an indefinition – the acronym SF, which might mean any or all of those things.

Don’t move to Silicon Valley. Even before 2020, I would have said, “Don’t quit your job, don’t move to SF, don’t pass go, and don’t collect $200 (from VCs).” After all, San Francisco is expensive, traffic-heavy, and not a great place to raise your children—or even a dog. Now, post-COVID, remote work is the new normal, and that means you can stay where you are. Sam Altman, the former CEO of Y Combinator, said that he was “very excited to see SF have to compete with other cities.” Me too. Not only is it cheaper and less competitive to build your company in a smaller town or city, but it’s also better for the local community, which as we’ve learned can pay dividends for your business.

Then Ellie found herself sitting at a table in the bar of the Algonquin Hotel, back in New York City. Nadine was sitting opposite her.

Stevens Books SF 49 Ocean Avenue San Francisco, CA 94112 (415) 859-5371 Stevens Books in San Francisco is the only bookstore in the Excelsior District and serves as a hub for the community for book clubs, children’s story time and resource of used books. Centrally located within the Excelsior and Mission Terrace neighborhoods, it is only blocks away from City College and Balboa Park. The book store stocks a broad range of categories, especially featuring current bestsellers, children's books, fiction, mysteries, sci-fi, and fantasy. The non-fiction includes biographies, travel, African-American, Spanish language, cooking, graphic design, art, fashion, history, politics and more. We are also known for the extensive collection of children’s books and hard to find out of print titles. Our main specialty is Christian religious books. We buy back textbooks and resell them. For buy back textbooks we offer cash. If you don’t see what you’re looking for, just ask and the staff will get it for you – and at a discount!

No.” She bit her lip and played with her hair in a flirty way, but she wasn’t really good at flirting. He knew she was attracted to him. He liked her, too, but for different reasons. There was something real about her, and he met a lot of people in San Francisco who weren’t real at all. It didn’t matter what she said; he just liked listening to her talk. “What about you?” he asked. “What’s the Lucy Hagen story?” She blushed and looked away. “Oh, that’s a boring story.” “I doubt it. Everybody’s got a story. Did you grow up in the city?” “No. Out in Modesto. I went to SF State and wanted to stick around after college. Nobody was hiring business majors, so I applied at Macy’s. I had

had few other choices. And it was her “build everything” position, and SF BARF’s comfort with for-profit development generally, that put Sonja and her group in conflict with the city’s nonprofit establishment, which tended to look skeptically on any building that wasn’t 100 percent subsidized and tarred privately built apartments as “market-rate luxury housing.