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London Quotes

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London Quotes

“London I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infants cry of fear, In every voice: in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear How the Chimney-sweepers cry Every blackning Church appalls, And the hapless Soldiers sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.”

PoetryLondon
Book:Songs of Innocence and of Experience
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“Of the Russian exiles, Lenin is the last I should have picked as a man of destiny. [Angelica] Balabanoff says that she cannot remember where she first met Lenin and that even when she became conscious of his existence he made no impression upon her. Many others would say the same, but I remember vividly my first meeting with him. It was at dinner in a small Greek restaurant in Soho, not far from the house which bears the tablet commemorating the fact that Karl Marx once lived there. I met him again at Stuttgart, [at the International Socialist Congress] in 1907. In the meantime he had acquired the reputation of being a brilliant student of Marxian economics, a dangerous antagonist in all intra-party controversies and a master of revolutionary tactics and sectarian conspiracies. At the conference he was usually surrounded by a small group of whispering disciples. … Some of Lenin's enemies believed that he was a paid emissary of the Russian police. His tactics and the dissensions which he promoted among the Russian socialists aroused suspicion. He was a fanatic, a disorganizer, a sectarian, who gave no indication in pre-war days of having the qualities of a national leader. He won his battles but they were always directed against his comrades.”

DestinyLondonExileRussian RevolutionKarl MarxLeninFanaticSectarianVladimir LeninBolshevik
Book:Revolution Why, How, When?
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“And I'll close by saying this. Because anti-Semitism is the godfather of racism and the gateway to tyranny and fascism and war, it is to be regarded not as the enemy of the Jewish people, I learned, but as the common enemy of humanity and of civilisation, and has to be fought against very tenaciously for that reason, most especially in its current, most virulent form of Islamic Jihad. Daniel Pearl's revolting murderer was educated at the London School of Economics. Our Christmas bomber over Detroit was from a neighboring London college, the chair of the Islamic Students' Society. Many pogroms against Jewish people are being reported from all over Europe today as I'm talking, and we can only expect this to get worse, and we must make sure our own defenses are not neglected. Our task is to call this filthy thing, this plague, this—this pest, by its right name; to make unceasing resistance to it, knowing all the time that it's probably ultimately ineradicable, and bearing in mind that its hatred towards us is a compliment, and resolving (some of the time, at any rate) to do a bit more to deserve it. Thank you.”

WarRacismEuropeMurderIslamLondonTyrannyChristmasFascismCivilisationDetroitAnti SemitismJihadJewsSpeechesPogromsAhmed Omar Saeed SheikhDaniel PearlNorthwest Airlines Flight 253Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab
Author:Christopher Hitchens
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“Darkness. The door into the neighboring room is not quite shut. A strip of light stretches through the crack in the door across the ceiling. People are walking about by lamplight. Something has happened. The strip moves faster and faster and the dark walls move further and further apart, into infinity. This room is London and there are thousands of doors. The lamps dart about and the strips dart across the ceiling. And perhaps it is all delirium... Something had happened. The black sky above London burst into fragments: white triangles, squares and lines - the silent geometric delirium of searchlights. The blinded elephant buses rushed somewhere headlong with their lights extinguished. The distinct patter along the asphalt of belated couples, like a feverish pulse, died away. Everywhere doors slammed and lights were put out. And the city lay deserted, hollow, geometric, swept clean by a sudden plague: silent domes, pyramids, circles, arches, towers, battlements.”

WarLondonBombingAirstrike
Book:Islanders & The Fisher of Men
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“Long before it was known to me as a place where my ancestry was even remotely involved, the idea of a state for Jews (or a Jewish state; not quite the same thing, as I failed at first to see) had been 'sold' to me as an essentially secular and democratic one. The idea was a haven for the persecuted and the survivors, a democracy in a region where the idea was poorly understood, and a place where—as Philip Roth had put it in a one-handed novel that I read when I was about nineteen—even the traffic cops and soldiers were Jews. This, like the other emphases of that novel, I could grasp. Indeed, my first visit was sponsored by a group in London called the Friends of Israel. They offered to pay my expenses, that is, if on my return I would come and speak to one of their meetings. I still haven't submitted that expenses claim. The misgivings I had were of two types, both of them ineradicable. The first and the simplest was the encounter with everyday injustice: by all means the traffic cops were Jews but so, it turned out, were the colonists and ethnic cleansers and even the torturers. It was Jewish leftist friends who insisted that I go and see towns and villages under occupation, and sit down with Palestinian Arabs who were living under house arrest—if they were lucky—or who were squatting in the ruins of their demolished homes if they were less fortunate. In Ramallah I spent the day with the beguiling Raimonda Tawil, confined to her home for committing no known crime save that of expressing her opinions. (For some reason, what I most remember is a sudden exclamation from her very restrained and respectable husband, a manager of the local bank: 'I would prefer living under a Bedouin muktar to another day of Israeli rule!' He had obviously spent some time thinking about the most revolting possible Arab alternative.) In Jerusalem I visited the Tutungi family, who could produce title deeds going back generations but who were being evicted from their apartment in the old city to make way for an expansion of the Jewish quarter. Jerusalem: that place of blood since remote antiquity. Jerusalem, over which the British and French and Russians had fought a foul war in the Crimea, and in the mid-nineteenth century, on the matter of which Christian Church could command the keys to some 'holy sepulcher.' Jerusalem, where the anti-Semite Balfour had tried to bribe the Jews with the territory of another people in order to seduce them from Bolshevism and continue the diplomacy of the Great War. Jerusalem: that pest-house in whose environs all zealots hope that an even greater and final war can be provoked. It certainly made a warped appeal to my sense of history.”

WarChristianityHistoryDemocracyIsraelLondonRussiaOppressionFranceTortureBritainTerritoryWorld War IFree SpeechColonialismPersecutionPalestineDiplomacySecularismFanaticism19th CenturyAncestryJerusalemReligious ExtremismEthnic CleansingJewsArmageddonLeftismAntisemitismBolshevismCrimeaPalestiniansArabsZealotryHouse ArrestPhilip RothBedouinCrimean WarRamallahArthur BalfourRaimonda Tawil
Book:Hitch 22: A Memoir
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“I was taken to a villa to meet Sabri al-Banna, known as 'Abu Nidal' ('father of struggle'), who was at the time emerging as one of Yasser Arafat's main enemies. The meeting began inauspiciously when Abu Nidal asked me if I would like to be trained in one of his camps. No thanks, I explained. From this awkward beginning there was a further decline. I was then asked if I knew Said Hammami, the envoy of the PLO in London. I did in fact know him. He was a brave and decent man, who in a series of articles in the London Times had floated the first-ever trial balloon for a two-state solution in Israel/Palestine. 'Well tell him he is a traitor,' barked my host. 'And tell him we have only one way with those who betray us.' The rest of the interview passed as so many Middle Eastern interviews do: too many small cups of coffee served with too much fuss; too many unemployed heavies standing about with nothing to do and nobody to do it with; too much ugly furniture, too many too-bright electric lights; and much too much faux bonhomie. The only political fact I could winnow, from Abu Nidal's vainglorious claims to control X number of 'fighters' in Y number of countries, was that he admired the People's Republic of China for not recognizing the State of Israel. I forget how I got out of his office.”

WarPoliticsIraqIsraelChinaLondonInterviewsMiddle EastPalestineArafatMilitary TrainingTwo State SolutionPloThe TimesAbu NidalSaid Hammami
Book:Hitch 22: A Memoir
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“She turned her face up to his. She could have raised herself up on her toes and kissed his mouth. Instead she caught his gaze with her own. Their eyes held each other's, as their bodies could not, and together they began to dance. There on the balcony, under the stars, with the rooftops of London the only witnesses. And though Lucie could not touch him, Jesse's presence warmed her, surrounded her, calmed her. She felt a pressure in her throat: Why had no one ever told her how close happiness was to tears?”

HappinessTearsLondonLucie HerondaleJesse Blackthorn
Book:Chain of Thorns
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“London was beginning to illuminate herself against the night. Electric lights sizzled and jagged in the main thoroughfares, gas-lamps in the side streets glimmered a canary gold or green. The sky was a crimson battlefield of spring, but London was not afraid. Her smoke mitigated the splendour, and the clouds down Oxford Street were a delicately painted ceiling, which adorned while it did not distract. She has never known the clear-cut armies of the purer air. Leonard hurried through her tinted wonders, very much part of the picture. His was a grey life, and to brighten it he had ruled off a few corners for romance.”

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Book:Howards End
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“But then that evening on the couch Malcolm said something he didn’t catch. Oliver had leaned forward and asked what he’d said, and Malcolm had kissed him. A speculative kiss; nothing more, nothing less. Oliver could smell that dizzying aftershave of Malcolm’s mixed with the musk of a day in a hot office and a night at a party in Kensington. Sweat and tobacco and alcohol. “I don’t know how to do any of this,” Oliver whispered. He pressed his forehead to Malcolm’s and closed his eyes. All he could see was Jenny, there in the house with Imogen at her side. Manic, when he’d left her this morning. Baking pies and organising their receipts and bills into boxes so they could find everything when they needed them. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, wouldn’t acknowledge his readiness to leave. Imogen hadn’t kissed him goodbye. His daughter, once so full of life, with so many questions and an endless thirst for adventure, had grown quiet and deeply suspicious of his absences too; she simply avoided interaction with him as much as she could now, which upset him more than anything else. He could accept Jenny’s coldness, he had earned that, but Imogen? He couldn’t abide the thought of alienating his only child. He wanted to sit her down and explain what was going on in his life, in her life. But how could she begin to understand what was happening when he barely grasped it himself? That closeness they’d had on their little tour of the children’s homes seemed so very long ago now. “Just let yourself go, Oliver,” Malcolm said. “Abandon yourself. Forget about everything else. Just for tonight.” Oliver kissed him back finally and raised a hand to Malcolm’s face. After a moment’s hesitation, he ran his fingers through Malcolm’s fine blond hair. He’d wanted to do that for weeks. To touch him. One touch led to another until their hands were entwined and they were kissing in the darkness with the sound of London traffic drifting into the apartment. One door being opened that led to another door, and another, deeper into a house he didn’t know the dimensions of. But Malcolm coaxed him through with gentle encouragement. It felt like a controlled explosion in his life. Over the next few days and weeks, he came to realise that there were shards of that explosion in everything. Some of them shone like diamonds, some of them were sharp to the touch. He tried to conceal them as well as he could.”

GayBetrayalLondonKissQueer
Book:PoppyHarp
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“These friends - and he laid his hand on some of the books - have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever since I had the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England; and to know her is to love her. I long to go through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes it what it is.”

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Book:Dracula
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“When I was in London in 2008, I spent a couple hours hanging out at a pub with a couple of blokes who were drinking away the afternoon in preparation for going to that evening's Arsenal game/riot. Take away their Cockney accents, and these working-class guys might as well have been a couple of Bubbas gearing up for the Alabama-Auburn game. They were, in a phrase, British rednecks. And this is who soccer fans are, everywhere in the world except among the college-educated American elite. In Rio or Rome, the soccer fan is a Regular José or a Regular Giuseppe. [...] By contrast, if an American is that kind of Regular Joe, he doesn't watch soccer. He watches the NFL or bass fishing tournaments or Ultimate Fighting. In an American context, avid soccer fandom is almost exclusively located among two groups of people (a) foreigners—God bless 'em—and (b) pretentious yuppie snobs. Which is to say, conservatives don't hate soccer because we hate brown people. We hate soccer because we hate liberals.”

FootballRacismDrinkingLondonSoccerNflFishingRomeItalyForeignersAmerican FootballPubsAlabamaConservativesLiberalsCockneys20102008YuppiesSnobsRio De JaneiroArsenal FcRednecks2010 Fifa World CupSoccer In The United StatesUltimate FightingYobsAuburn AlabamaBass FishingBubbasFootball HooliganismLiberal Elite
Author:Robert Stacy McCain
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“Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where St Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stock of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him crying: 'Stetson! You, who were with me in the ships at Mylae! That corpse you planted last year in your garden, Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, Or with his nails he'll dig it up again! You! hypocrite lecteur!-mon semblable,-mon frere!”

WarDeathHumanityFearLondonThe Wasteland
Book:Selected poems
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“We make it back outside for my favourite time of day, golden hour swarming our senses. Pink intersperses with the blue and grey of the sky, like a beautiful storm is coming. What's left of the sun softly punches our faces, discouraging sobriety. A young girl passes us, hand in hand with her mother, the other hand an open palm, feeling for the light in the world. Del turns to me, the black of her eyes full and open.”

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Book:Small Worlds
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“The English language is like London: proudly barbaric yet deeply civilised, too, common yet royal, vulgar yet processional, sacred yet profane. Each sentence we produce, whether we know it or not, is a mongrel mouthful of Chaucerian, Shakespearean, Miltonic, Johnsonian, Dickensian and American. Military, naval, legal, corporate, criminal, jazz, rap and ghetto discourses are mingled at every turn. The French language, like Paris, has attempted, through its Academy, to retain its purity, to fight the advancing tides of Franglais and international prefabrication. English, by comparison, is a shameless whore.”

LanguageHumourLondonParisFrenchEnglish
Book:The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within
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“A child in London asked her father what autumn was, having heard it spoken of these days, and the father in explanation said it was a season, though not a major one. In cities, this father said, you did not feel autumn so much, not as you felt the heat of summer or the bite of winter air, or even the slush of spring. He said that, and then the next day sent for the child and said he had been talking nonsense. 'Autumn is on now,' he said. 'You can see it in the parks,' and he took his child for a nature walk.”

NatureChildhoodLondonAutumn
Book:The Love Department
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“The hours stretch out in summer, the evenings go on and on; has he lost track of hours? Where are you, Zachariah? Come home! Rachel stands by the windows again, listening to the thrum in Camden Road and the Gardens behind, everything noisier on long summer afternoons, streets and voices, people speaking louder even face-to-face as if fighting to be heard over the seasonal rush of blood, over the bright light and heightened smells and unusual clamour of days. The city transfigured this year almost overnight and it has not rained in weeks. How the sun shines, how the rain falls, the qualities of light and precipitation, London has a microclimate all its own. London weather has powers of change, change and conjuration.”

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Book:Be My Wolff
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“I have had so many Dwellings, Nat, that I know these Streets as well as a strowling Beggar: I was born in this Nest of Death and Contagion and now, as they say, I have learned to feather it. When first I was with Sir Chris. I found lodgings in Phenix Street off Hogg Lane, close by St Giles and Tottenham Fields, and then in later times I was lodged at the corner of Queen Street and Thames Street, next to the Blew Posts in Cheapside. (It is still there, said Nat stirring up from his Seat, I have passed it!) In the time before the Fire, Nat, most of the buildings in London were made of timber and plaister, and stones were so cheap that a man might have a cart-load of them for six-pence or seven-pence; but now, like the Aegyptians, we are all for Stone. (And Nat broke in, I am for Stone!) The common sort of People gawp at the prodigious Rate of Building and exclaim to each other London is now another City or that House was not there Yesterday or the Situacion of the Streets is quite Changd (I contemn them when they say such things! Nat adds). But this Capital City of the World of Affliction is still the Capitol of Darknesse, or the Dungeon of Man's Desires: still in the Centre are no proper Streets nor Houses but a Wilderness of dirty rotten Sheds, allways tumbling or takeing Fire, with winding crooked passages, lakes of Mire and rills of stinking Mud, as befits the smokey grove of Moloch. (I have heard of that Gentleman, says Nat all a quiver). It is true that in what we call the Out-parts there are numberless ranges of new Buildings: in my old Black-Eagle Street, Nat, tenements have been rais'd and where my Mother and Father stared without understanding at their Destroyer (Death! he cryed) new-built Chambers swarm with life. But what a Chaos and Confusion is there: meer fields of Grass give way to crooked Passages and quiet Lanes to smoking Factors, and these new Houses, commonly built by the London workmen, are often burning and frequently tumbling down (I saw one, says he, I saw one tumbling!). Thus London grows more Monstrous, Straggling and out of all Shape: in this Hive of Noise and Ignorance, Nat, we are tyed to the World as to a sensible Carcasse and as we cross the stinking Body we call out What News? or What's a clock? And thus do I pass my Days a stranger to mankind. I'll not be a Stander-by, but you will not see me pass among them in the World. (You will disquiet your self, Master, says Nat coming towards me). And what a World is it, of Tricking and Bartering, Buying and Selling, Borrowing and Lending, Paying and Receiving; when I walk among the Piss and Sir-reverence of the Streets I hear, Money makes the old Wife trot, Money makes the Mare to go (and Nat adds, What Words won't do, Gold will). What is their God but shineing Dirt and to sing its Devotions come the Westminster-Hall-whores, the Charing-cross whores, the Whitehall whores, the Channel-row whores, the Strand whores, the Fleet Street whores, the Temple-bar whores; and they are followed in the same Catch by the Riband weavers, the Silver-lace makers, the Upholsterers, the Cabinet-makers, Watermen, Carmen, Porters, Plaisterers, Lightemen, Footmen, Shopkeepers, Journey-men... and my Voice grew faint through the Curtain of my Pain.”

MoneyCapitalismLondonCapitalLondon City
Book:Hawksmoor
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“But this city is a world of its own, a country within a country. People are used to taking the old and making it news; and used, too, to taking the new and making it old. Every glass of water from its taps, it is said, has passed six times through the kidneys of another, and every scrap of its land has been trodden on, fought over, dug up and broken down for centuries.”

EnglandLondonDirtyBritainCityCapitalMetropolisUk
Book:Hearts and Minds
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“But Tom was no believer in fairy tales and miracles. He could walk through a bluebell wood and not see a single fairy--- not that there were any bluebell woods in London, but there were parks with ancient trees, and markets filled with spices and fruits from countries a thousand miles away, and people of all races and types, and cobbled alleys that echoed with ghosts, and ships that only appeared by night, and secret plague pits under the ground.”

LondonMain CharacterSightlessLost PrinceReality And Fiction
Book:The Moonlight Market
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“There were some places, and streets, where he did not venture since he had learnt that others had claims there greater than his own - not the gangs of meths drinkers who lived in no place and no time, nor the growing number of the young who moved on restlessly across the face of the city, but vagrants like himself who, despite the name which the world has given them, had ceased to wander and now associated themselves with one territory or 'province' rather than another. All of them led solitary lives, hardly moving from their own warren of streets and buildings: it is not known whether they chose the area, or whether the area itself had callen them and taken them in, but they had become the guardian spirits (as it were) of each place. Ned now knew some of their names: Watercress Joe, who haunted the streets by St Mary Woolnoth, Black Sam who lived and slept beside the Commercial Road between Whitechapel and Limehouse, Harry the Goblin who was seen only by Spitalfields and Artillery Lane, Mad Frank who walked continually through the streets of Bloomsbury, Italian Audrey who was always to be found in the dockside area of Wapping (it was she who had visited Ned in his shelter many years before), and 'Alligator' who never moved from Greenwich.”

LondonHomelessHomelessnessHomeless PeopleGreenwichWhitechapelBloomsburyVagrantWappingLimehouseSpitalfields
Book:Hawksmoor
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“To catch the bad guys, you've got to think like a bad guy - and that's why all the best detectives have a dark side...”

CrimePoliceBritishLondonDetectivesPolice OfficerCrime FictionDetectiveCrime ThrillerPolice OfficersDetective StoriesDetective FictionDetective NovelBased On Real EventsBased On A True StoryHard BoiledLondon CityBritish CrimeBritish DetectivesCrime QuotesDetective QuotesHard Boiled DetectiveTrue DetectiveDetective Noir CrimeBritish Detective FictionCrime QuoteDetective NoirDetective StoryBased On True StoriesBritish Crime AuthorBritish DetectiveBritish Detective ThrillerBritish Thriller WritersBritish ThrillersCrime Fiction Authors
Book:The Theseus Paradox
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“And a ton came down on a coloured road, And a ton came down on a gaol, And a ton came down on a freckled girl, And a ton on the black canal, And a ton came down on a hospital, And a ton on a manuscript, And a ton shot up through the dome of a church, And a ton roared down to the crypt. And a ton danced over the Thames and filled A thousand panes with stars, And the splinters leapt on the Surrey shore To the tune of a thousand scars.”

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Book:The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb
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“The town of London, Georgia, was on a grid, with the old-fashioned town square in the center. Smack in the middle of the square, the courthouse rose above the other buildings. Constructed of red brick, with white ionic columns lining the front, the courthouse sported a clock tower with a copper dome that had developed a green patina after years of oxidation. The residents jokingly called it the “The Tower of London” for the historic castle in London, England. But while the English tower housed the Crown Jewels, the Georgian tower graced the building where citizens of London paid their parking tickets. The only Beefeaters at this Tower of London were the retirees who ate steak and eggs and played checkers at the diner nearby. Established by a few founding families who had sailed over from its namesake city a couple hundred years ago seeking religious freedom, London leaned into its Anglophile origin. On the corner of the town square sat the Olde Towne Shoppe— and that was “Shoppe” with an E at the end— which sold everything from “Werewolf of London” tees to English breakfast teas. Rumors abounded about the religion the founding families had needed freedom to practice, and people whispered that the families hadn’t just brought old-world culture and Christianity but also old-world demons. The blood-sucking, fangy ones. Londoners didn’t put any stock in the vampire tales, but they provided great fodder for tourism, much like trolls in Norway and Mothman in Point Pleasant, West Virginia. The Shoppe took tourists on walking tours called “Legends of London: A Bite on the Town,” sharing stories of the macabre and selling fruit punch in pouches designed to look like blood bags from the Red Cross. Yet there were other stories that floated down from generation to generation— ones that weren’t touted on the tours, about mysterious deaths and other odd happenings in their town. Londoners whispered of people disappearing overnight and secret rooms behind bookshelves where the undead hid their victims. When Mina’s third-grade teacher had passed away suddenly halfway through the year, kids swore weeks later that they’d seen her lurking around the playground at night. Mina knew this was all just folklore but still loved to hear the stories. Maybe because she considered herself a mystery of London.”

LondonMonstersGeorgiaCrypticOld CultureMina MurrayCourthouseDark MysteryLocal Folklore
Book:Girl of Lore
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“In the words of Mr Thierry Coup of Warner Bros: 'We are taking the most iconic and powerful moments of the stories and putting them in an immersive environment. It is taking the theme park experience to a new level.' And of course I wish Thierry and his colleagues every possible luck, and I am sure it will be wonderful. But I cannot conceal my feelings; and the more I think of those millions of beaming kids waving their wands and scampering the Styrofoam turrets of Hogwartse_STmk, and the more I think of those millions of poor put-upon parents who must now pay to fly to Orlando and pay to buy wizard hats and wizard cloaks and wizard burgers washed down with wizard meade_STmk, the more I grind my teeth in jealous irritation. Because the fact is that Harry Potter is not American. He is British. Where is Diagon Alley, where they buy wands and stuff? It is in London, and if you want to get into the Ministry of Magic you disappear down a London telephone box. The train for Hogwarts goes from King's Cross, not Grand Central Station, and what is Harry Potter all about? It is about the ritual and intrigue and dorm-feast excitement of a British boarding school of a kind that you just don't find in America. Hogwarts is a place where children occasionally get cross with each other—not 'mad'—and where the situation is usually saved by a good old British sense of HUMOUR. WITH A U. RIGHT? NOT HUMOR. GOTTIT?”

United StatesLondonBritainHarry PotterWizardsAmericanismOrlandoHogwartsTheme ParksBoarding SchoolWarner BrosDiagon AlleyBritishismGrand CentralKing S CrossMinistry Of MagicThierry Coup
Author:Boris Johnson
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“«Devi vedere i colori di questa città» mi disse mentre già scendevamo la scalinata. «Londra è colorata. C’è il rosso degli autobus, per esempio». Mi afferrò la mano che aveva abbandonato per permettermi di scendere le scale e quasi mi trascinò per i primi passi. «Devi vedere il verde dei parchi, l’azzurro del fiume, il rosa di certi tramonti… Londra è molto più di autobus rossi e taxi neri, vedrai cosa intendo»”

LoveLondonAmoreOne LoveNew AdultLondraRagazzi
Book:One Love: un amore a Londra
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“Every Friday evening since the late sixties, at 5:00 p.m. we'd walk into the nearby Brompton Cemetery, which, since its four corners connect Fulham, Chelsea, South Kensington, and Earl's Court, was a convenient meeting point for all our friends. We'd plan our weekend on the grave of Admiral Angus Whitewater. We didn't know the Admiral, he just happened to have an impressive horizontal slab of black marble over his last resting place, which made a great table for drinks.”

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Author:Pooley Clara
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“...and when the Assembly arrived at Dusk I hasten'd into the Streets and made my self a child of Hazard. There was a Band of little Vagabonds who met by moon-light in the Moorfields, and for a time I wandred with them; most of them had been left as Orphans in the Plague and, out of the sight of Constable or Watch, would call out to Passers-by Lord Bless you give us a Penny or Bestow a half penny on us: I still hear their Voices in my Head when I walk abroad in a Croud, and some times I am seiz'd with Trembling to think I may be still one of them.”

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Book:Hawksmoor
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