I want to still be me when I wake up one fine morning and have breakfast at Tiffany´s.
Truman CapoteRead
New York is the only real city-city.
Interpretation
The quote suggests that New York is a unique and authentic urban experience compared to other cities.
Truman Capote's quote emphasizes the singular essence of New York City, portraying it as the epitome of what it means to be a 'real' city. Unlike other urban areas that may lack the same vibrancy, culture, and complexity, Capote argues that New York encapsulates the full spectrum of city life, making it a standout in the cosmopolitan world.
In practice
Use this quote in a speech about urban culture and identity.
I want to still be me when I wake up one fine morning and have breakfast at Tiffany´s.
All writing, all art, is an act of faith. If one tries to contribute to human understanding, how can that be called decadent? It's like saying a declaration of love is an act of decadence. Any work of art, provide it springs from a sincere motivation to further understanding between people, is an act of faith and therefore is an act of love.
No one will ever know what 'In Cold Blood' took out of me. It scraped me right down to the marrow of my bones. It nearly killed me. I think, in a way, it did kill me.
Hot weather opens the skull of a city, exposing its white brain, and its heart of nerves, which sizzle like the wires inside a lightbulb. And there exudes a sour extra-human smell that makes the very stone seem flesh-alive, webbed and pulsing.
I don't want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together.
The quietness of his tone italicized the malice of his reply.
As bad as it might be to destroy a creature made in God's image, it might be very much worse to be creating them after images of one's own.
God reveals himself in the orderly harmony of what exists.
It hurts the spirit, somehow, to read the word environments, when the plural means that there are so many alternatives there to be sorted through, as in a market, and voted on.
In conlusion, there is no conclusion. Things will go on as they always have, getting weirder all the time.
Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely? All this must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely?
The sacred rights of mankind are not to be rummaged for among old parchments or musty records. They are written, as with a sunbeam, in the whole volume of human nature, by the hand of the divinity itself; and can never be erased.
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