Quotes About City

The lonely mind in the busy city yearns for connection because it thinks human-tohuman connection is the point of everything. But amid pure nature (or the 'tonic of wildness' as Thoreau called it) solitude took on a different character. It became in itself a kind of connection. A connection between herself and the world. And between her and herself.

Cities try to shame us into action, as they know stillness is the preserve of the destitute, the dangerous, the dead.

A person was like a city. You couldn't let a few lees desirable parts put you off the whole. There may be bits you don't like, a few dodgy side streets and suburbs, but the good stuff makes it worthwhile.

A person was like a city. You couldn't let a few less desirable parts put you off the whole.

A person was like a city. You couldn't let a few less desirable parts put you off the whole. (...) the good stuff makes it worthwhile.

The paranoia about both national media and the opposing fans is now such a central part of the fan experience that for some modern fans, the dread of an opposing city reveling in their city's loss outweighs the potential satisfaction of winning.

That sweet city [Oxford] with her dreaming spires.

Calm Soul of all things! make it mineTo feel, amid the city's jar,That there abides a peace of thine,Man did not make, and can not mar.

Humid the air! Leafless, yet soft as spring. The tender purple spray on copse and briers! And that sweet city with her dreaming spires, she needs not June for beauty's heightening. Lovely all the time she lies...

Read about the then-Greek city of Smyrna in 1922 to see a human Buffalo Jump in action.

News was not just the high doings of important persons, but rather the "shreds and patches" of everyday life, a daily record of the city in all its mottled and disorderly splendor.

Once I had flesh the city could pierce with a frown- I'd bleed into sewers like rain. Men without legs on subways moved me, women with swollen feet. Now I belong to them. When I ignore them it's with the confusion of the newly damned- as if I believe I've survived.

La pression de la ville : de toutes parts. Les maisons ne sont pas là pour qu'on y demeure, mais pour qu'il y ait des rues et, dans les rues, le mouvement incessant de la ville.

Perhaps my story will allow someone to see their reflection in its muddy waters on some evening when they are lost and looking for shelter in the city at night. I can't guarantee that the reflection will be of much help, or that these papers will offer even a fragile roof over their head. But here between these papers is where the promise lives and breathes.

Lord of the seven winds, what a smile! He could pull down the walls of a city with that smile. And I, like that walls of puerta de Tierra, could feel myself crumbling under its dazzling sparkle.

The city was a paradox, though maybe it had always been one. You could have an excellent life here, even as everything disintegrated. The city at that moment was not a place that anyone would remember with nostalgia, except for the fact that in the midst of all this, if you played it right, your money could double, and you could buy a big apartment with triple-glazed windows that overlooked the chaos.

The city was a paradox, though maybe it had always been one. You could have an excellent life here, even as everything disintegrated.

Being here reminded him of how hard the city had been, it's unyielding surfaces, the relentless need for more and more money just to keep yourself vaguely afloat. The city was not a place for the contemplative or the slow.

It was impossible to look out on the city from high up without thinking for a second of 9/11, even nine years later. Any overarching view of the city seemed to call for a brief, noble hush. Smokestacks steamed; lights stuttered; there was movement along the grid. The quiet moment now wasn't unpleasurable. It was just a moment of seriousness, born in something terrible, but now uncoupled from it.

This was New York, where famous people drank from the same trough you did,...

I'm aware that New York is a toilet bowl–but an expensive porcelain one.

The earth had set me free. The city was at my feet. I forgot where I was and that I had not touched a pencil in months.

proper city growth isn't what Older wants to talk about. All he cares about are his graft hobgoblins.

City hall was a disaster. My uncle's fault, and China Joe had the proof of it.