Tiffany New York Quotes

Just because life is hard, and always ends in a bad way, doesn't mean that all stories have to, even if that's what they tell us in school and in the New York Times Review. In fact, it's a good thing that stories are as different as we are, one from another.

Just because life is hard and always ends in a bad way doesn't mean that all stories have to. Even if that's what they tell us in school and the New York Book Review.

The True measure of a person’s success is to be a person of value.’ I knew people of value, people who kept their promises, people who were kind, people who were loyal.

Michael, this is an order from your mistress. Tell me what you want. Now.” “I want Griffin.” The words came out immediately. She had trained him too well. “I want Griffin so much it hurts. I love him, Nora. I have never felt anything like this before. And it’s absolutely stupid because he’s rich and he’s perfect and amazing and I’m a nobody. I’m a nobody, and I’m in love with someone I can’t be with. He’s so beautiful. I can’t stop looking at him, I can’t stop thinking about him. I dream about him at night. And he’s the first thing I think about when I wake up. And I want to touch him so much. I want to touch his face and that fucking perfect hair of his. And his lips and his chest and his arms— and I think about those arms around me, and it’s humiliating how much I want that. And, God, I want to live in his bed. I want to spend the rest of my life underneath him. I want to feel him on top of me and inside me. And I want submit to him. I want to go down on my knees in front of him. I want to call him sir and wear his collar and kiss his fucking feet if he told me to. And I want to walk down the busiest street in New York with him holding hands so the entire world can see us together and know that I belong to him. I love Griffin, Nora. I’m in love with him. And I can’t be with him. But that’s… that’s it.” Michael turned his head and buried it a little deeper into the cleft of Nora’s neck and shoulder. He wanted to stay there so he wouldn’t have to look her or anyone in the eyes ever again. “You won’t tell him, will you?” “She doesn’t have to.

So there we were, baking in the sun, waiting endlessly for lonely midshipmen to stop by. We didn't see a single one. Should have know. Guys don't hang around libraries on the weekend.

I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods. For instance, there is a brownstone in the East Seventies where, during the early years of the war, I had my first New York apartment.

She says, this is Holly, I say honey, you sound far away, she says I'm in New York, I say what the hell are you doing in New York when it's Sunday and you got the test tomorrow? She says I'm in New York cause I've never been to New York.

-I love New York, even though it isn't mine, the way something has to be, a tree or a street or a house, something, anyway, that belongs to me because I belong to it.

When you found someone you really loved, everything fitted.

I instantly thought the guy was cute, in that gaunt, never-sees-the-light-of-day, New York street urchin kind of way. And he never stood still for a second. From across the tracks I read his expression as I have everything on my side except destiny, only his expression clearly hadn't informed his head or heart yet. The guy looked over and caught me staring, and once his eyes met mine they never deviated. He took several cautious steps forward, stopping abruptly at the thick yellow line you weren't supposed to cross. His arms dangled like a puppet and he seemed to skim the ground when he walked, as if suspended over the edge of the world by a hundred invisible strings.

My mother used to say that if I couldn’t sleep I should count something that matters, anything but sheep. Count stars. Count Mercedes-Benzes. Count U.S. presidents. Count the years you have left to live. I might jump out the window, I thought, if I couldn’t sleep. I pulled the blanket up to my chest. I counted state capitals. I counted different kinds of flowers. I counted shades of blue. Cerulean. Cadet. Electric. Teal. Tiffany. Egyptian. Persian. Oxford. I didn’t sleep. I wouldn’t sleep. I couldn’t. I counted as many kinds of birds as I could think of. I counted TV shows from the eighties. I counted movies set in New York City. I counted famous people who committed suicide: Diane Arbus, the Hemingways, Marilyn Monroe, Sylvia Plath, van Gogh, Virginia Woolf. Poor Kurt Cobain. I counted the times I’d cried since my parents died. I counted the seconds passing. Time could go on forever like this, I thought again. Time would. Infinity loomed consistently and all at once, forever, with or without me. Amen.

I know you mean well, but you have to remember that things don't always work out like they do in your storybooks.

I love New York, even though it isn’t mine, the way something has to be, a tree or a street or a house, something, anyway, that belongs to me because I belong to it.

No one was a stranger in that crowd. We had all heard FDR's "Fireside Chats" and Edward R. Murrow's "This is London," listened to H.V. Kaltenborn for the evening news, and watched the newsreels before the movies. We'd read Ernie Pyle's columns, planted victory gardens, written V mails, sent care packages, gathered phonograph records for the USO, given up nylon for parachutes, saved bacon grease for explosives, and turned in tin foil, saved from gum wrappers, for ammunition. Most of all, we'd prayed that our loved ones would be safe.

In New York City alone, three different imaginary bombs were to drop, one of which was to land imaginarily at the intersection of Fifty-Seventh Street and Fifth Avenue—right in front of Tiffany’s, of all places. As part of the test, when the warning alarm sounded, all normal activities in the fifty-four cities were to be suspended for ten minutes. —All normal activities suspended for ten minutes, read Woolly out loud. Can you imagine? Somewhat breathlessly, Woolly turned to yesterday’s paper in order to see what had happened. And there on the front page—above the fold, as they say—was a photograph of Times Square with two police officers looking up the length of Broadway and not another living soul in sight. No one gazing in the window of the tobacconist. No one coming out of the Criterion Theatre or going into the Astor Hotel. No one ringing a cash register or dialing a telephone. Not one single person hustling, or bustling, or hailing a cab. What a strange and beautiful sight, thought Woolly. The city of New York silent, motionless, and virtually uninhabited, sitting perfectly idle, without the hum of a single expectation for the very first time since its founding.

Just because life is hard, and always ends in a bad way, doesn’t mean that all stories have to, even if that’s what they tell us in school and in the New York Times Book Review. In fact, it’s a good thing that stories are as different as we are, one from another.

This problem was in the mind of actor/playwright/producer Steele MacKaye when he took over the lease of the bankrupt Fifth Avenue Theatre in 1879. A true Renaissance man and a Paris-trained actor, MacKaye had been a fixture of the New York theater scene since 1872, achieving a notable measure of success both on and off the stage. And when some private investors gave him the opportunity to build a stock company of his own, in a built-to-order theater, spending whatever he liked and making whatever improvements he wanted, he jumped at the chance. Over the next year, the Fifth Avenue was completely remodeled. It opened at the beginning of 1880, renamed the Madison Square Theatre, a resplendent 650-seat jewel box of a playhouse that featured such MacKaye-devised innovations as a double-height elevator stage that could make scene shifts in less than a minute, fold-up seats, a Tiffany-designed interior … and, for the

I began my talk by explaining how opportunities for women in craft workshops had come about through Mrs. Candace Wheeler’s Society of Decorative Art for Women in New York. “The biggest step forward was to convince women that the work of their hands deserved payment and wasn’t just a pleasant domestic pastime.

about Tiffany’s, that the famous little blue box was almost a by-word for true New York-style fairy-tale romance. According to her, there wasn’t a woman in the world who could resist it;, the store and its wares enchanting the dreams of millions.

And this new story; he had an idea for a title. He’d heard a sailor on leave, during the war, tell another sailor that he’d take him to breakfast at the most expensive place in town. Where did he want to go? “Well,” the naïve sailor had replied, “I always heard that Tiffany’s was the most expensive place in New York.” Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It was a great title, that much Truman knew. Beyond that— Truman

Oh, my goodness-how lovely to have you here," she gushed. "Now please tell me-where is it that you're from?" "I'm from Iowa," I said, flustered by the attention. "Oh, my dear!" She shook her head, her feather bobbing. "Here on the East Coast- we pronounce it O-hi-o!

I hear ding her neglectials to smilined, - there is a brownstone in the East Seventies where, during the early years of the war, I had my first New York apartment. It was one room crowded with attic fur-niture, a sofa and fat chairs upholstered in that itchy, particular red velvet that one associates with hot days on a train. The walls were stucco, and a color rather like tobacco-spit. Everywhere, in the bathroom too, there were prints of Roman ruins freckled brown with age. The single window looked out on a fire escape. Even so, my spirits heightened whenever I felt in my pocket the key to this apartment; with all its gloom, it still was a place of my own, the first, and my books were there, and jars of pencils to sharpen, everything I needed, so I felt, to become the writer I wanted to be.

I am always drawn back to the places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods. For instant there is a brownstone in the East Seventies where, during the early years of the war, I had my first New York apartment. It was one room crowded with attic fur-niture, a sofa and fat chairs upholstered in that itchy, particular red velvet that one associates with hot days on a train. The walls were stucco, and a color rather like tobacco-spit. Everywhere, in the bathroom too, there were prints of Roman ruins freckled brown with age. The single window looked out on a fire escape. Even so, my spirits heightened whenever I felt in my pocket the key to this apartment; with all its gloom, it still was a place of my own, the first, and my books were there, and jars of pencils to sharpen, everything I needed, so I felt, to become the writer I wanted to be.

New York’s patrician Sephardic families quickly noticed that their names were not included in McAllister’s collection either. Some Sephardim expressed relief at this. But others resented it. They blamed the new exclusivity on the behavior of the “loud, aggressive, new-rich Germans.” To the Sephardim, the Germans had become the toplofty, arrogant “Mrs. Tiffanys.

It was morning. Sunlight filtered in with the smell of burnt toast.

When it was legal, slavery bolstered the economy even in states where it was not permitted. Financing the slave trade, selling the goods and services that supported it, insuring enslaved human “property,” and hosting auctions were big business. Northern banks extended the lines of credit that slavers needed to purchase human beings and agricultural equipment. New England businessmen helped Southern rural planters negotiate the cotton market, serving as brokers and paid advisers.[1] New York Life, now the nation’s third-largest insurer and a Fortune 500 company, sold hundreds of policies covering the value of enslaved people so slavers could recoup their worth in case they died doing hazardous work in mills, mines, or factories. In 1847, such policies accounted for a third of their business.[2] Aetna and US Life (now a subsidiary of AIG) did brisk business as well. Before becoming one of the nation’s most influential investment banks (and ultimately collapsing in 2008), Lehman Brothers began as an Alabama cotton brokerage. The fortunes of J. P. Morgan, John Jacob Astor, Charles Lewis Tiffany (the jeweler), and Archibald Gracie III (of the family of Gracie Mansion, now the official residence of the mayor of New York City) all had ties to the booming cotton trade.[3]