Quotes About City

Recuerdo el primer día que la llevé a mi casa. Mientras yo forcejeaba con la cerradura del portal dijo: —Menuda mierda de ciudad. Le pregunté por qué. —Mira —dijo y, con una mueca de asco infinito, señaló una placa que anunciaba: «Avinguda Lluís Pericot. Prehistoriador»Ã¢â'¬â€. Podían haberle puesto a la calle el nombre de alguien que por lo menos hubiera terminado la carrera, ¿no?

The problem is, for some reason you think you are going to meet the kind of girl who is not the kind of girl who would be at a place like this at this time of the morning. When you meet her you are going to tell her that what you really want is a house in the country with a garden. New York, the club scene, bald women—you're tired of all that. Your presence here is only a matter of conducting an experiment in limits, reminding yourself of what you aren't.

In New York, madmen are free. Put out on the streets, they're not all that different from the punks, junk, junkies, alcoholics, beggars who fill it. It is unclear why a city, just as mad, would suddenly keep its madmen locked up, why should he deprive the movement of these samples of madness, if it, in one form or another, has already captured the entire city

The city was here before the freeway system, no doubt, but it no looks as though the metropolis was built around this arterial network. It is the same with American reality. It was there before the screen was invented, but everything about the way it is today suggests hit was invented with the screen in mind.

The lamp I am writing by is deer fat poured into a turtle shell with a strip of my old city trousers for a wick.

There is always a city. There is always a civilization. There is always a barbarian with a pickaxe. Sometimes you are the city, sometimes you are the civilization, but to become that city, that civilization, you once took a pickaxe and destroyed what you hated, and what you hated is what you did not understand.

The grey city and its lost hearts force its way between myself and my healing.

And if I say to you that I am glad of everything we have done together, and sorry that we will not be here together in forty years, laughing at a faded photo of you impersonating a lion, it having withered well, you less so, as we stand fabulously old, in a city that understands what spirit it takes to be old, to be beautiful, to be much looked at, to be itself, to be never quite caught, to have a past, to be content, to have seen much, to have remained, to have continued…

The asynarte city; two rhythms unconnected, profanity, holiness, and out of that strange bed, art.

Pulsar: a dying star spinning under its own exploding anarchic energy, like a lighthouse on speed. A star the size of a city, a city the size of a star, whirling round and round, its death-song caught by a radio receiver, light years later, like a recorded message nobody heard, back-played now into infinity across time. Love and loss.

I came to this city to escape.

I keep forgetting that if you live in a big city only mad people talk to themselves.

Homelessness is illegal. In my city no one is homeless although there are an increasing number of criminals living on the street. It was smart to turn an abandones class into a criminal class, sometimes people feel sorry for the down and outs, they never feel sorry for criminals, it has been a great stabilizer.

There is always a city. There is always a civilisation. There is always a barbarian with a pickaxe. Sometimes you are the city, sometimes you are the civilisation, but to become that city, that civilisation, you once took a pickaxe and destroyed what you hated, and what you hated was what you did not understand.

This is the city of uncertainty, where routes and faces look alike and are not. Death will be like that. We will forever be recognizing people we have never met. But darkness and death are not the same. One is temporary, the other is not.

There is a city surrounded by water with watery alleys that do for streets and roads and silted up back ways that only the rats can cross. Miss your way, which is easy to do, and you may find yourself staring at a hundred eyes guarding a filthy palace of sacks and bones. Find your way, which is easy to do, and you may meet an old woman in a doorway. She will tell your fortune, depending on your face. This is the city of mazes.

This is the city of disguises. What you are one day will not constrain you on the next. You may explore yourself freely and, if you have wit or wealth, no one will stand in your way. This city was built on wit and wealth and we have a fondness for both, though they do not have to appear in tandem.

London is perpetual; a constant streaming present hurrying towards a receding future.

mas a la sazón contaba treinta años y me hallaba en París, donde no puede vivirse sin contar con algo.

Lina looked out at the lighted streets spreading away in every direction, the streets she knew so well. She loved her city, worn out and crumbling though it was.

She loved to run. She could run forever. And she loved exploring every nook and cranny of the city, which was what a messenger got to do.

city was lost in darkness now, and anyone left there was lost, too.

That's the city I see in my dreams, Poppy. It isn't like Ember at all. The sky is light and the buildings are tall and sort of sparkle. (Lina)

New Yorkers, I figured, just pretended to be unfriendly.