The City Has Always Been

When Traveling, I Usually Keep A Notebook: When Home At My Desk, The Notebook Serves Mainly To Remind Me How Little I Saw At The Time, Or Rather How I Was Noticing The Wrong Things. But The Notes Do Spur Memories, And It's The Memories I Trust. The Wine Stain On The Page May Tell Me More Than The Words There, Which Usually Strike Me As Hopelessly Inadequate.

In The City One Clings To Nostalgic And Unreal Signs Of Community, Takes Forced Refuge In Codes, Badges And Coteries; The City's Life, Of Surfaces And Locomotion, Usually Seems Too Dangerous And Demanding To Live Through With Any Confidence.

When New Yorkers Tell One About The Dangers Of Their City, The Muggings, The Dinner Parties To Which No One Turns Up For Fear Of Being Attacked On The Way, The Traffic Snarl-ups, The Bland Indifference Of The City Cops, They Are Unmistakably Bragging.

Books Admitted Me To Their World Open-handedly, As People For Their Most Part, Did Not. The Life I Lived In Books Was One Of Ease And Freedom, Worldly Wisdom, Glitter, Dash And Style.

Interstate Highways Dull The Reality Of Place And Distance Almost As Effectively As Jetliners Do: I Loathe Their Scary Monotony.