The Empire State, a lonely dinosaur, rose sadly at midtown, highest tower, tallest mountain, longest road, King Kong’s eyrie, meant to moor airships, alas.
The most wonderful street in the universe is Broadway. It is a world within itself. High and low, rich and poor, pass along at a rate peculiar to New York, and positively bewildering to a stranger.
New York. The world’s most dramatic city. Like a permanent short circuit, sputtering and sparking up into the night sky all night long. No place like it for living. And probably no place like it for dying.
(“New York Blues”)
And yet, there will always be something essentially elsewhere about New York. It is a place that people come to precisely because it doesn’t ever fully offer itself. It’s intoxicating. Keeps you on your toes. Keeps you drinking coffee and keeps you walking.
New York is at once cosmopolitan and parochial, a compendium of sentimental certainties. It is in fact the most sentimental of the world’s great cities – in its self-congratulation a kind of San Francisco of the East
Not the least of the hardships to which the dying are subject is the visitation of their loved ones. The poor darlings, God bless them, may feel every impulse to condole and console, but their primary sensation is nonetheless one of embarrassment in the presence of the unspeakable and a guilty gratitude that it is not yet their fate.
Some of us claim that New York City is the capital of the country, indeed the capital of the world. Now, that may be a bit much for those who don’t come from New York, but clearly we are an important city for reasons of our cultural advantages.
[David Dinkins ex NYC Mayor]
I’m here because I was born here and thus ruined for anywhere else, but I don’t know about you.
New York is a granite beehive, where people jostle and whir like molecules in an overheated jar. Houston is six suburbs in search of a center.
New York is large, glamorous, easy-going, kindly and incurious, but above all it is a crucible – because it is large enough to be incurious.