Quotes About City

San Francisco. The one team that everyone in LA hates.

I'm from California, and still live in LA.

Flaneur is the French word for walker, or saunterer. A flaneur is someone who walks as self-expression and exploration. For the flaneur, it is not about getting from point A to point B, or about getting into shape. The act of walking is its own reward. A flaneur walks the City in order to experience it, to fully participate through observation and peregrination.

There are more balls in twenty feet of street here then there are in all of Dublin, and I'm proud to be swaying in the nut sack.

A lamb in a city of wolves.

My city. I pondered that phrase, wondered why Barrons felt that way. He never said "our world." He always said "your world." But he called Dublin his city. Merely because he'd been in it so long? Or had Barrons, like me, been beguiled by her tawdry grace, fallen for her charm and colorful dualities? I looked around "my" bookstore. That was what I called it. Did we call the things of our heart our own, whether they were or not?

There'd been a recent rain, and against the coal of night, the shiny cobbled streets gleamed amber, rose, and neon-blue from reflected lamps and signs.

In this city, you have to risk your life; go farther, and pay more to be poor.

Do you know Oslo well?" Sejer asked, surprised. "I drove a taxi there for two years." "Is there anything you haven't done?" "I've never done any skydiving.

The good thing about what's happened in Huambo is that the problems have forced these people to work for the first time. The city people are lazy, and finally they are being made to work,' he says. I wonder how Elizabeth Casilva, whose family is on the brink of starvation, would feel about such a statement. She could not possibly work any harder, and yet only a feeding centre kept her son Erickson from dying.

Now I know all city parks are the same. Hyde Park. The bluffs above Santa Monica. The Tuileries. Just paths beneath trees where people walk in varying states of heartbreak. Staggering between divorces and biopsies. And at the edge, one final row of lavender azaleas.

It seemed like a magical city, floating on the lagoon as if conjured by an enchanter's wand. I sat in the meadow and stared at it, picking meadow flowers from around my feet- clover and daisies and wild garlic- and making myself a wreath.

I walked down Paseo del Prado, losing myself to the sights, sounds, and dense magic of the city. There's something weirdly calming about being alone in a big city. It made me feel like the universe was hugely generous, and that my species was so damn smart to have constructed such a beautiful city.

You never wanted to appear out of your element in New York. It made you vulnerable.

By the eighth and ninth centuries, mistrusted by the Christians and neglected by the Germanic conquerors, the baths in the West had fallen into disrepair and were finally abandoned. Extraordinary achievements in engineering, architecture, public health and city planning that stretched from Italy to Britain to North Africa, they mostly lay in ruins for centuries.

I want to live New York City. Not live IN it, but live IT. I want to be alive right here, right now.

The sound of the bell reverberated on a breeze brittle with the promise of snow, skittering among the city's chimneys and across frost-kissed slate roofs.

A good earthy witch is more honest than some city rogue tricked out in black cone-hat and robe of stars

I was nineteen at the time, prowling the streets and alleys with my usual supply of hot dogs, the street lights with their foggy haloes showing dark, formless shapes moving out from the darkness of the fog and disappearing again.

That was before the new puritans took over the city. Before political correctness became the rage and melted all of us into a single amorphous dung heap.

Living in Seattle is like being married to a beautiful woman who's sick all the time.

But the daily tasks and prayers of men, the ancient city tired from having lived too long, the ravaged marble and worn out bells, all those things oppressed by the weight of memories, all those perishable things were rendered humble in comparison with the tremendous blazing Alps that tore at the sky with their thousand unyielding spikes, a vast, solitary city that was waiting, perhaps, for a new race of Titans.

To return to the city of one's birth always felt like retreat.

Los Angeles, especially when taken from a distance, was not a beautiful city, but she could will herself to be beautiful, if only for two weeks. Beauty, after all, is almost always a matter of angles and resolve.