I would like to get a house in Tuscany: aside from New York, cities do not appeal to me anymore.

New York is the perfect model of a city, not the model of a perfect city.

And except on a certain kind of winter evening—six-thirty in the Seventies, say, already dark and bitter with a wind off the river, when I would be walking very fast toward a bus and would look in the bright windows of brownstones and see cooks working in clean kitchens and and imagine women lighting candles on the floor above and beautiful children being bathed on the floor above that—except on nights like those, I never felt poor; I had the feeling that if I needed money I could always get it.

I love New York, even though it isn't mine, the way something has to be, a tree or a street or a house, something, anyway, that belongs to me because I belong to it.

She's displaced, and has no bonds to anybody here. I've lived in cities, and I can assure you: New York was very different to me, and I'm a human.

I like a New York accent.