10 Best Quotes About New York City

Ah, New York. The city of all cities—a playground for the rich, famous, and utterly destitute.

In honor of our mighty urban epicenter, here’s a list of some choice New York City quotes by the literary geniuses who’ve previously inhabited these very streets. They too have tasted that ubiquitous juxtaposition of complete satisfaction and constant unrest… which, by the way, just so happens to keep this city thrilling.

***

“And New York is the most beautiful city in the world? It is not far from it. No urban night is like the night there... Squares after squares of flame, set up and cut into the aether. Here is our poetry, for we have pulled down the stars to our will.”

-- Ezra Pound

“One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.”

-- Tom Wolfe

“When you leave New York, you are astonished at how clean the rest of the world is. Clean is not enough.”

-- Fran Lebowitz

“There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something.

...Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion. ”

-- E.B. White, Here Is New York

“The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and beauty in the world.”

--

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

“I look out the window and I see the lights and the skyline and the people on the street rushing around looking for action, love, and the world’s greatest chocolate chip cookie, and my heart does a little dance.” 

-- Nora Ephron

“There is something in the New York air that makes sleep useless.”

-- Simone De Beauvoi

“New York walking isn’t exercise: it’s a continually showing make-your-own movie.” 

-- Roy Blount Jr.  

“New York is an ugly city, a dirty city. Its climate is a scandal. Its politics are used to frighten children. Its traffic is madness. Its competition is murderous. But there is one thing about it - once you have lived in New York and it has become your home, no other place is good enough.”

-- John Steinbeck

"I can't believe it now, that the city opened before us like some land of dreams, but it did."

-- Mary Cantwell, Manhattan, When I Was Young


Developing Obsession

No words needed... 'cept these lyrics. 



Mumford & Sons performing "Below My Feet" on a recent SNL. 

September's Rooftop Slumber

It was completely quiet.

The heavy door slammed behind me and blocked out a slew of intrusive noises -- some comforting, like the clatter of dinner plates; some irritating, like the wailing of an uncontrollable infant.

But up here? All I could hear was the soft sound of moving air.

The wind tousled my hair into knots as I looked over the ledge, down, down, down onto 6th Street. How happy I was to be perched up high, rather than sitting on the over-exposed front stoop. Typically I wouldn’t mind the chance for random conversation with eclectic passersby of the East Village, but today I couldn’t bring myself to keep up with arbitrary conversation.

I was tired.

The afternoon at work had been hectic, and I’d barely escaped in time to pick up supplies from Whole Foods. A group of us were making dinner that night and if I was in charge, then it better be half-decent, no? 

So I purchased two bags worth of pita bread, olive oil, tomatoes, etc., and carried the Italian-themed smorgasbord eight avenues to the east and nine blocks to the south.

Despite my ambitious load of groceries, the walk was pleasant, considering I’d watched most of the day perish from the inside of an office building (as I’m sure you did too). Still, when I finally placed the brown paper bags down, my hands screamed in their displeasure.

Whoops.

As I dug around inside the oh-so trusty purse for Band-Aids, another thought occurred to me: After all that rushing, fast walking, and overall hustle – I was quite early. Too early.

In fact, no one was home.
Whoops x2.

Subsequently, I pretended to be “locked out of my apartment” so some gent would buzz me through the downstairs door. While I still wouldn’t have a key to my friends’ place, I did know there was always available rooftop access.  

And in that instant, sunset was all I wanted.
And maybe also some of that hummus I’d just purchased.
(But that’s beside the point.)

Thus, there I was.
Sitting on the roof. Taking in that expectant moment when hurried night is about to overtake retreating day. During quiet twilights like this one, I can never determine if I’m despondent or excited; apprehensive or self-aware; completely overwhelmed or perfectly content.  

I decided, quite contrarily, I was impossibly all of the above. Then I placed my jacket over my legs and slept peacefully, if only for a moment or so.



[Editor's Note: The rest of the evening was also immensely enjoyable.] 

When It's The Perfect Temperature Outside

Fall is in the air… and I think I’m a tiny bit excited about this fact.

The change in seasons means a few things: apple picking, pumpkin beer, blanket-covered mornings, and scarf-wearing nights.  Summer is my favorite season by far, but autumn is a close second because of countless nostalgic moments – and, of course, that crisp, dry leaves smell that can be captured even by the likes of New York City.

I can also eat hot food again in my apartment.
Without melting.
Woo.

Still, it's hard to believe I've already walked amongst the streets of midtown and spotted little carts with aromatic chestnuts roasting. The early darkness and sudden drop in temperature occurred almost over night, with Labor Day as the official (and literal) “adieu” to summer’s hazy months. These switches in seasons almost always trigger self-awareness in my writing, so below are the oh-so brilliant thoughts that occupied my mind on the train ride home this afternoon:

One: This is the first time I’ve not gone back to school in 15 years. 
I decided this realization is bittersweet.
Two: I never received my diploma in the mail, though I was 
promised I would by July.
Three: Therefore, maybe I did not graduate? 
I decided this realization is concerning.  
Four: This led to another conclusion: Maybe I should go back to school? Maybe I’m meant to be a student my entire life, in the comforting classrooms that offer intellectual observation and perpetual academic discourse with enthusiastic peers (ah… sigh). 
Five: But then again, maybe not.  

And do you know why I think "maybe not?"
DEBT.

Anyway, happy fall! Here are some random end-of-summer pics:


Parks at night. 

 PBR that’s just right.

Bus trips home.

 DC alone.

 Sisters on the road…

 With a broken car that should be towed.

 Parts of campus still undiscovered, 

 Hash browns, "smothered and covered."

 Fuel for the last leg of our journey,


And a sister that’s really quite nerdy. 

That Moment When Less Leads To More

So here we are again.

I’m starring at another job application, an unsigned roommate contract, and an email informing me of my impending student loan start date. There's a four letter explicative I would like to insert right about…(here).

This month’s goals are daunting, and all the while summer is slowly slipping away into that unstoppable, seasonal darkness. The days are less likely to reach their climatic noon, or stretch so delicately into evening. It’s only September and I feel that approaching winter dread – or is it subtle excitement? I can’t tell which anymore; maybe these perceptions simply arrive as an inseparable pair.

Back to that job application: “First name, last name.”
With each keystroke I’m reminded of my temporary position.

No, I think cruelly. Not one temporary positionyou should be reminded of them all. Four months here, six months there. How pleasant it must be to have a salary, my mind says. To have benefits, to have footing – dare you dream to have some clout! Oh don’t you long for these nuisances? Or at least… they would be nuisances for you.

I click off of MediaBistro or Journalism Jobs or whatever the hell website I’ve dragged up from the depths of the internet. Enough of that for now. I sip water out of a glass fashioned from an old jelly jar. How is it so damn stuffy in this apartment when autumn has already robbed us of late evenings and 9 o’clock sunsets?

I stare off into space for a minute. Then I allow myself to ask the dangerous question that's never truly examined: What am I doing?

Sure, I know what I’m doing today, tomorrow, this weekend and probably the next. But now I sit in silence and blink hard; hard enough to stop a flood of possible tears. Breathing in three times, I acknowledge the moment of weakness for what it is: I’m overwhelmed by possibility – choosing wrong, choosing right, choosing anything for any sphere of my life. Making a choice toward one particular direction or another has paralyzed me into an apathetic numbness.

So here we are again.

Jobless, penniless, tireless, listless – less less less!

Ah ha.
But wait?
I am not less.
 
We, my friends, are not less.

The mere mention of the world less strikes up a rejuvenation in me that spurs the antonym more. And then I remember…it hits like a ton of bricks!... I am faultlessly hungry for more.

THAT is what I’m doing. And the question isn’t even “what am I doing” but how, and why, and for what reason. Do I have a worthy reason? If not, then best to jump ship now before sinking into some unexplored doom.

But the reasons, too, come flooding back to me. I don’t want a salary, or benefits. I don’t need footing, or clout. If I did, I never would have moved to New York to be that tirelessly cliché writer-type who works for ten bucks an hour and eats eggs like they’re going out of style.

No, no, no… My mentality was momentarily smothered by desires that will never fulfill what I truly long for, which is, most easily described as a voice, a story, and possibly (if I’m so lucky) an impact.

What am I doing? I’m living. What am I doing? I’m writing. What am I doing? I’m trying and failing, and succeeding and flourishing, and attempting to do all of the above over and over again until there’s not an ounce of me left I haven’t given to this story.

My story.
Your story.
Our story.

So let me write these stories... because I can.

[Editor’s Note: A big thanks to all those in the past couple of weeks who have been retweeting, reposting, and responding to my HuffPost articles and the blog. It really means the world to me that you spend precious minutes reading my work. So thank you, thank you, thank you one thousand time over].

30 Common NYC Poses

I just stumbled upon this little New York-inspired GIF and thought I'd share its brilliance with the blogosphere. My favorite poses (and most frequently used) are the following: "Crowded train," "Ew, air conditioner rain," and "I think that was Ryan Gosling." 

GIF by Nathan W. Pyle

Happy Friday, kids. 

A Belated Birthday Post: 24 in NYC

 

Thesis statement
Broken heels on pavement
Ham for lunch
Still on for weekend brunch?
10 bucks an hour
No need to shower…

Mild December
Church member
Hummus and wine
Dismissing time
TK lists
The drive to persist
Years that are blurring
Nights on a train with people slurring

New place of work
Guys that lurk
Long summer days
Finding the right phrase
August’s electric air
The persistent struggle to pay cab fare

Late nights
Great nights
Sudden morning lights
Rooftops
Mountaintops
Dirty subway stops
Graduation
First vacation
Ongoing narration
Flirtation
Starvation
Absolute liberation
Self-inflicted obligation

Always met with 
 quiet restoration.   

Now here’s to being 24
And knowing there’s still
so much
more. 

The Proposal

I was sitting on the north side of Union Square Park, happily killing time with a book before dinner. The main character was about to learn something important when…

“Hello?” an Asian American, NYU-looking student ducked into my line of vision. We made eye contact as I peered hesitantly over the book.


You think I would know, by now, that eye contact is a death sentence to remaining obscure.

I was required to speak. “Hi,” I said with an overtly awkward face.
“So… I love you.”
I laughed, again, awkwardly.
“No, I love you.”
I look around for a camera, or even a group of laughing friends. None could be spotted.
“Er… ah, did someone dare you to do this?”
“No. I knew when I saw you. I saw your red hair, 
and I knew I loved you.”

I eyed my frizzy curls. When was the last time I’d showered?

“So yeah, I love you.”
He seemed to speak as though he were joking; yet he was relentless in his quest for attention. I couldn’t seem to shake him with any number of coy remarks.

“I’m a man on a mission,” he stated firmly.
Yeah… and I’m a girl with a knife.

Then he smiled lightheartedly and got down on one knee.

“Will you marry me?”
“Oh. Oh dear.” Now the surrounding 15 or so people were watching as I calmly closed my book. The main character’s surprising discovery would have to wait until I’d disposed of Improbable Future Husband.

I glanced at the man to my left for moral support. The older Italian gentleman had tan skin and the kind of designer glasses you know cost more than my apartment.
“He-he-he,” he giggled at me.

“Unfortunately, I’m taken,” I say. Two can play at this.
“Oh,” he seemed genuinely surprised. “I see.”
“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that.”
“Well how long have you been dating?”

Persistent sonofa…

“Two years since May,” I shoot back, not batting at eye.
“Are you going to marry him?”
“Probably.”
“You really think so?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” I say quickly. This conversation had become a long detour from my supposed afternoon plans. The neighboring Italian man begins to flat out laugh. “I am loe-king for da cam-aira,” he chuckles.

“Me too,” I say glancing around, half assuming the lovelorn bachelor’s antics will somehow end up on YouTube.

“Well, you might marry someone else. But I DO love you.”
“Well… I’m sorry I didn’t meet you first?”
“Can I give you my number?”
Sigh. 
“Sure thing.”
“Oh! What’s your name?”
“Uh… Brit.” I couldn’t think on the spot. Obviously my name is Nicole and I’m from Nebraska!
“Is that a fake name?” he asked with a smile.
“Yes. What’s your number?”

He gives me his digits, which have a 718 area code – meaning he probably lives somewhere in the boroughs. Then he makes me label him in my contacts list as “Person I’m Supposed To Marry,” and he’s not content till the name is just so.
“Ok, now call me,” he says.

Blast! I should have known better.
Whatever.
I could probably take this guy (right?), and I could 
definitely block his number.

“So if you ever breakup with your boyfriend… call me?”
“Of course,” I say with a smile. He sauntered off, and I resumed my reading. A few minutes later the Italian stood up to leave. “Watch out fer those hopeless roman-tics,” he wisely suggested as he nodded his farewell.

The next morning, I received a short text message.
“I love you brit,” it said from Improbable Future Husband.

Well… there are worse ways to start your day. 



[Editor's Note: I realize I didn't spell "person" correctly in the above picture, but as I was slightly frazzled, I thought I would leave my grammatical error for effect.]