One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.
Over the great bridge, with sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of non-olfactory money. The city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world.
—F. Scott Fitzgerald
The true New Yorker secretly believes that people living anywhere else have to be, in some sense, kidding.
I am starting to love the willful ignorance of New Yorkers, the ability to look at the epic and beautiful and quickly put it into context. It’s a skill that comes from the skyline; we see something that magnificent every day and somehow go on living. A back-drop like that will dominate you unless you earn to become a part of it, and that’s what New Yorkers do. Become towers.
He adored New York City. He idolized it all out of proportion… no, make that: he – he romanticized it all out of proportion. Yes. To him, no matter what the season was, this was still a town that existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin.
I would give the greatest sunset in the world for one sight of New York’s skyline. Particularly when one can’t see the details. Just the shapes. The shapes and the thought that made them. The sky over New York and the will of man made visible. What other religion do we need?
I don’t like Los Angeles. The people are awful and terribly shallow, and everybody wants to be famous but nobody wants to play the game. I’m from New York. I will kill to get what I need.