"He’d fallen out of love with his neighborhood, a place that had become so shiny and new that it no longer felt like a respite from the corporate world. “I didn’t feel guilty about leaving Williamsburg; Williamsburg had already left me.”
Most of my tumblr posts here have been self-plagiarized from my previous tumblr posts, fabricated, made-up, and altered. And the quotes in my posts either do not exist, are unintentional misquotations, or represent improper combinations of previously existing quotes.
At 25, [Redacted] was the most sought-after young reporter…, producing knockout articles for magazines… . Trouble was, he made things up—sources, quotes, whole stories—in a breathtaking web of deception that emerged as the most sustained fraud in modern journalism.
London Street Photography — “images by over 70 photographers who have recorded fleeting moments in London, capturing the faces and lives of ordinary people who populate this complicated and ever-changing metropolis” — and City Scenes: Highlights of New York Street Photography — “30 key works by New York photographers will provide a counterpart illustrating the rich tradition of street photography in New York City” —at the Museum of the City of New York.
(From “Lunch Poems”, the title refers to both O’Hara’s capacity write the poems while sitting in Times Square during his lunch hour, as well as the ease in which a reader could take the pocket-sized volume along and read it during his own lunch hour.)
In New York it becomes so easy to assume that the city’s most alluring women have flown in from Paris or Milan.
But they’re just a minority. A much larger convey hails from the stalwart states that began with the letter I—like Iowa and Indiana and Illinois. Bred with just the right amount of fresh air, rough housing, and ignorance, these primitive blondes set out from the corn fields looking like starlight with limbs.
Every morning in early spring one of them skips off her porch with a sandwich wrapped in cellophane ready to flag down the first Greyhound headed to Manhattan—this city where all things beautiful are welcomed and measured and, if not immediately adopted, then at least tried on for size.
You can always tell a rich New York girl from a poor one. And you can tell a rich Boston girl from a poor one. After all, that’s what accents and manners are there for. But to the native New Yorker, the midwestern girls all looked and sounded the same.
Sure, the girls from the various classes were raised in different houses and went to different schools, but they shared enough midwestern humility that the gradations of their wealth and privilege were obscure to us.
Or maybe their differences (readily apparent in Des Moines) were just dwarfed by her socioeconomic strata—that the thousand-layered glacial information that spans from an ash can on the Bowery to a penthouse in paradise.
Either way, to us they all looked like hayseeds unblemished,