Sometimes New York feels like a dream.
SoHo, NY early morning
For some reason, this has been sent around the office all day today
NewZweek is gonna be so much better.
Some summer Friday afternoon thoughts:
“I don’t understand people who like to work and talk about it like it was some sort of goddamn duty. Doing nothing feels like floating on warm water to me. Delightful, perfect.”
The last day of March,
My darling Sleeping Child, I am oddly shy about you. I still regard you as an inviolate presence. You are as secret as the mysterious processes of the womb. I’m not being fancy…I have treated women, generally, very badly and used them as an exercise for my contempt - except in your case.
I have fought like a fool to treat you in the same way and failed. One of these days I will wake up - which I think I have done already - and realise to myself that I really do love. I find it very difficult to allow my whole life to rest on the existence of another creature. I find it equally difficult, because of my innate arrogance, to believe in the idea of love. There is no such thing, I say to myself.
There is lust, of course, and usage, and jealousy, and desire and spent powers, but no such thing as the idiocy of love. Who invented that concept? I have racked my shabby brains and can find no answer.
But when people die, those who are taken away from us can never come back. Never, never, never, never, never (Lear about Cordelia). We are such doomed fools. Unfortunately, we know it. So I have decided that, for a second or two, the precious potential of you in the next room is the only thing in the world worth living for. After your death there shall only be one other and that will be mine. Or I possibly think, vice versa.
And loving Rich
-Richard Burton in a letter to Elizabeth Taylor (1973) (via)
We like this one even better.
A day late, but that’s appropriate. I learned procrastination from this guy, my lovely and wonderful papa.
Grandpa in People Magazine with The Situation. I am utterly at a loss for words.
I couldn’t love this more.
(Remembered by Uzma A.)
Tikki Tikki Tembo, No Sa Rembo, Chari Bari Buchi, Pip Peri Pembo! (Also: this book has an amaaaaazing scene involving opium.)
“Gentleman: A man who buys two of the same morning paper from the doorman of his favorite nightclub when he leaves with his girl.”
-Marlene Dietrich (photo by Eugene Robert Richee)
E.B. White outlines that there are roughly three New Yorks:1) The New York of the man or woman who was born here
2) The New York of the commuter
3) The New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something
On the third:[T]he greatest is the last — the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high-strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion. And whether it is a farmer arriving from Italy to set up a small grocery store in a slum, or a young girl arriving from a small town in Mississippi to escape the indignity of being observed by her neighbors, or a boy arriving from the Corn Belt with a manuscript in his suitcase and a pain in his heart, it makes no difference: each embraces New York with the intense excitement of first love, each absorbs New York with the fresh eyes of an adventurer, each generates heat and light to dwarf the Consolidated Edison Company.
I returned to visit the place I grew up this weekend to take a trip with my family. “Home” is how I’d referred to the place for years. Yet slowly there was that tension between the place you lived and the place you live, the “were” and the “is,” the past, the present, and perhaps the future. And “home” — a four-letter word of a different kind — transforms.
More than a decade ago, I arrived in New York, but never intended to stay. I might (if I may), say then there are roughly four New Yorks:
Fourth, there is the New York of the man or woman who was born somewhere else and came to New York never intending to stay. Of these four incomparable cities, it may be the fourth that is the most unflappable, the most infallible, the most loyal. You see it is she who has understood love of a city, of its natives, and its commuters, of its messy seams and its buttoned-up asphalt, of its uptown arts and its devoted downtown. And she’s been spat on and praised, she’s been carried home, and cheered on. It is she, who embraces the city, knowing she had a choice otherwise.
“Yes, there’s a nightgown scene—and what a nightgown!”
Actual quote from 1953 Paramount newsreel about then-unknown Audrey Hepburn, making her silver screen debut in Roman Holiday. When did we stop referring to smiles as having “million-candle-power,” and sub in the charmless “megawatt”?