Quotes About Cityscape

Anima is walking along the promenade of the waterway that bisects her city, a few early morning barges cruise slowly by

I once said to someone that one doesn't come to New York for beauty. I said that's what Paris, or Iceland is for. [...] I didn't know what the hell I was talking about. [...] The thing is, beauty comes in unbeautfiul ways here.

I'm a big-city boy. What I like is big cities. It's not just what I like. It's what I write about.

One of the things that I tell beginning writers is this: If you describe a landscape, or a cityscape, or a seascape, always be sure to put a human figure somewhere in the scene. Why? Because readers are human beings, mostly interested in human beings. People are humanists. Most of them are humanists, that is.

From the tangle of chimney-pots scarcely a wisp of smoke came

changed to the elevated at the South Station, and at about twelve o'clock had climbed down the steps at Battery Street and struck along the old waterfront past Constitution Wharf. I didn't keep track of the cross streets, and can't tell you yet which it was we turned up, but I know it wasn't Greenough Lane.

Myron had a way with postcoital banter. Terese swung her legs out of bed, rose, and moved toward the window. Myron watched. He liked the way she moved naked, panther-like, all coiled and toned and confident. The apartment was perched above Central Park on the West Side. Terese looked out the window toward the lake and Bow Bridge. If you've ever seen a New York City movie where a couple in love runs across a footbridge, you've seen Bow Bridge. "God

I had mates who lived in tower blocks and I always hated seeing them, because of the lifts, y'know? My God, so scary.

It's a shame about California, and particularly about L.A., where they've demolished so many landmarks. It's a bit of a disease there, where if anything is over 30 years old, they sort of knock it down and replace it. It's a strange town, it's this sprawling suburb, and then there's a city, the old town.

If Paris is a city of lights, Sydney is the city of fireworks.

Boston: Clear out eight hundred thousand people and preserve it as a museum piece. New York: Prison towers and modern posters for soap and whiskey. Pittsburgh: Abandon it.

There is little in the architecture of a city that is more beautifully designed than a tree.

When I was a teenager, if you'd asked me, I would have said I was in a relationship with New York City. It was my first real love.

People always ask me what I'm doing on the subway, but I love it! Sometimes I like to ride in the front car and look out the window at the rats.

I use the city because it saves time, I don't have to do a lot of research on the setting.

On the Churchgate train, past Charni Road station as it sees the sea, past the gymkhanas—Islam, Catholic, Hindu, Parsi—as the shacks fade away, Bombay becomes a different city, an earlier city, a beautiful city. All of a sudden there is the blue sky and the clear water of Marine Drive, and everybody looks toward the bay and starts breathing.

The photographer is an armed version of the solitary walker reconnoitering, stalking, cruising the urban inferno, the voyeuristic stroller who discovers the city as a landscape of voluptuous extremes. Adept of the joys of watching, connoisseur of empathy, the flâneur finds the world 'picturesque.

For a long time thereafter I stared almost steadily at the bright and ostentatious VERIZON sign on top of one of the tallest buildings—the only branded skyscraper in Manhattan, a fucking blight marring the skyline—and I thought, Why couldn't those cunts have flown into that building?

When you've seen New York, you've seen almost every city in North America. Everything is uniformly the same.

Mandelion spread itself like a butterfly of brick and slate.

The animal is the city where I live. In the black fur the ground breathes.

Gavin Chambers was at the window of his office high-rise in midtown, looking down at the "protestors"—a ragtag group of aging grunge-ola that probably numbered no more than twenty—mulling inside the building's courtyard

Whores hung out the windows like shreds of leftover Christmas decorations.

Eyes mark the shape of the city.