Quotes About City

Their imaginations were fed by exile, a nourishment drawn not through roots but through rootlessness. My imagination, however, requires that I stay in the same city, on the same street, in the same house, gazing at the same view. Istanbul's fate is my fate. I am attached to this city because it has made me who I am.

T?pk?, daha oluÅŸumunu tamamlamakta olan bir gezegenin yüzeyi gibi, üzeri beton, taÅŸ, kiremit, ahÅŸap ve pleksiglas ve kubbeyle kapl? iniÅŸli ç?k??l? ÅŸehir parçac?klar?, sanki a??r a??r aralanacaklar ve karanl???n içinden esrarl? yeralt?n?n alev rengi ayd?nl??? s?zacakt?.

If we've lived in a city long enough to have given our truest and deepest feelings to its prospects, there comes a time when—just as a song recalls a lost love—particular streets, images, and vistas will do the same.

Why should we expect a city to cure us of our spiritual pains? Perhaps because we cannot help loving our city like a family. But we still have to decide which part of the city we love and invent the reasons why.

Had I been told Istanbul used to be a poorer, smaller and happier city, I might not have believed it, but that's what my heart told me.

He sensed, now, that the streets on which he sold boza in the night and the universe in his mind were one and the same .... the world within his soul reflected in the shadows of the city.

Pero cualquier cosa que digamos sobre las características generales de una ciudad, sobre su alma o su esencia, acaba convirtiéndose de forma indirecta en una confesión sobre nuestra vida y, especialmente, sobre nuestro estado espiritual. La ciudad no tiene otro centro sino nosotros mismos.

At night, he could sense the weight of the concrete, the hardness, and the horrors of the city around him.

The Istanbul in which they lived was a city littered with the ruins of the great fall, but it was their city. If they gave themselves to melancholic poems about loss and destruction, they would, if discovered, find a voice all their own.

In those moments, he would realize that this city where he'd spent forty years of his life, where he'd passed through thousands and thousands of doors, getting to know the insides of people's homes, was no less an ephemeral thing than the life he'd lived there and the memories he'd made.

En Estambul, la amargura es tanto un importante sentimiento de la música local y un término fundamental de la poesía como una manera de ver la vida, una actitud mental y lo que supone el material que hace a la ciudad ser lo que es.

Only a poet—not a novelist, and certainly not a historian—would be able to describe the despair that began to seep through the city toward the middle of June.

Father had warned Rigg how the rules changed when you traveled far, and he always warned that the bigger the city, the lower the level of civilization, which had seemed to make no sense to Rigg until now.

All around, the applause of the city, in the leaves and the trees and buildings, and a red-tail hawk shooting over the courts, and some clouds skillful overhead in the blue, and the babysitter in the background, rocking the carriage, and he had the fleeting desire to make the phone calls to Stormont, leave it all at deuce.

He had hidden in a city filled with black glass. But its surfaces made poor reflections, clinging jealously to their color as if they would reveal terrible pictures if they were allowed to clear.

As one long prepared, and graced with courage, as is right for you who were given this kind of city, go firmly to the window and listen with deep emotion, but not with the whining, the pleas of a coward; listen—your final delectation—to the voices, to the exquisite music of that strange procession, and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.

They rode out on the north road as would parties bound for El Paso but before they were even quite out of sight of the city they had turned their tragic mounts to the west and they rode infatuate and half fond toward the red demise of that day, toward the evening lands and the distant pandemonium of the sun.

The shape of the city stood in the grayness like a charcoal drawing sketched across the waste.

The lights of Knoxville quaked in a faint penumbra to the west as must the ruins of many an older city seen by herders in the hills, by barbaric tribesmen shuffling along the roads.

What if a whole goddamned building was to just up and sink? What about two or three buildings? What about a whole block? Harrogate was waving his bottle about. Goddamn, he said. What if the whole fuckin city was to cave in? That's the spirit, said Suttree.

before they were even quite out of sight of the city they had turned their tragic mounts to the west and they rode infatuate and half fond toward the red demise of that day, toward the evening lands and the distant pandemonium of the sun.

The lights of the city hovered in a nimbus and again stood fractured in the black river, isinglass image, tangled broken shapes splash of lights along the bridgewalk following the elliptic and receding rows of the pole lamps across to meet them. The rhythmic arc of the wipers on the glass lulled him and he coasted out onto the bridge, into the city shrouded in rain and silence, the cars passing him slowly, their headlamps wan, watery lights in sorrowful progression.

The streetlamps stood in globes of vapor and the buildings were dark and sweating. At times the city seemed older than Nineveh.

It hadn't been easy to reach the city where Jacob had grown up. The borders in his world were more tightly guarded than the island of the Fairies.