It was three years before we saw New York again. As the ship glided up the river, the city burst thunderously upon us in the early dusk — the white glacier of lower New York swooping down like a strand of a bridge to rise into uptown New York, a miracle of foamy light suspended by the stars. A band started to play on deck, but the majesty of the city made the march trivial and tinkling. From that moment I knew that New York, however often I might leave it, was home.
—F. Scott Fitzgerald (via narcotic)
