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London Quotes

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London Quotes

“Hay ciudades bellas y crueles, como París. O elegantes y escépticas, como Roma. O densas y obsesivas, como Nueva York. Londres no puede ser reducida a antropomorfismos. Siglos de paz civil, de comercio próspero, de empirismo y de cielos grises la han hecho indiferente como la misma naturaleza. Quizá exagero. Quizá Londres sea una proyección del carácter inglés. No hay sentimentalismos, ni derroches de pasión, ni verdades con mayúsculas. Por una u otra razón, Londres reúne las condiciones óptimas para que florezca la vida. Es difícil no sentirse libre en esa ciudad inabarcable y a la vez recoleta, sosegada como el musgo de sus rincones umbríos —una insignificancia vegetal que me conmueve, qué tontería—, donde caben el arte y su reverso técnico, el kitsch, sin estorbarse mutuamente, donde la Justicia, ese concepto peligroso, metafísico y continental, pesa menos que la sensatez a escala humana del fair play.”

LondonLondres
Author:Enric González Torralba
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“You must live a very free life." "Me?" she laughed. "I am not who swoops out of the sky to rain fire on pirates!" "Yeah, but before this I never did much. I mean I did a lot, but...I lived in a room at a university, and my whole world was in that little room. There was this world inside my head." De la Fitte studied his head as if she could see through his skull to a little globe inside it somewhere.”

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Book:The Dead Isle
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“Dipping and rising, moving and settling, the Commons remind one of a flock of birds settling on a stretch of ploughed land. They never alight for more than a few minutes; some are always flying off, others are always settling again. And from the flock rises the gabbling, the cawing, the croaking of a flock of birds, disputing merrily and with occasional vivacity over some seed, worm, or buried grain.”

LondonPoliticiansHouse Of Commons
Book:The London Scene: Six Essays on London Life
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“I love London. I love everything about it. I love its palaces and its museums and its galleries, sure. But also, I love its filth, and damp, and stink. Okay, well, I don’t mean love, exactly. But I don’t mind it. Not any more. Not now I’m used to it. You don’t mind anything once you’re used to it. Not the graffiti you find on your door the week after you painted over it, or the chicken bones and cider cans you have to move before you can sit down for your damp and muddy picnic. Not the everchanging fast food joints – AbraKebabra to Pizza the Action to Really Fried Chicken – and all on a high street that despite its three new names a week never seems to look any different. Its tawdriness can be comforting, its wilfulness inspiring. It’s the London I see every day. I mean, tourists: they see the Dorchester. They see Harrods, and they see men in bearskins and Carnaby Street. They very rarely see the Happy Shopper on the Mile End Road, or a drab Peckham disco. They head for Buckingham Palace, and see waving above it the red, white and blue, while the rest of us order dansak from the Tandoori Palace, and see Simply Red, White Lightning, and Duncan from Blue. But we should be proud of that, too. Or, at least, get used to it.”

LondonDanny WallaceCharlotte Street
Book:Charlotte Street
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“Always, from the first time he went there to see Eros and the lights, that circus have a magnet for him, that circus represent life, that circus is the beginning and the ending of the world. Every time he go there, he have the same feeling like when he see it the first night, drink coca-cola, any time is guinness time, bovril and the fireworks, a million flashing lights, gay laughter, the wide doors of theatres, the huge posters, everready batteries, rich people going into tall hotels, people going to the theatre, people sitting and standing and walking and talking and laughing and buses and cars and Galahad Esquire, in all this, standing there in the big city, in London. Oh Lord.”

LondonPiccadilly Circus
Book:The Lonely Londoners
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“As soon as we emerge from the tube and walk through the limestone archway on Borough High Street, we are bombarded by purveyors of everything from fresh vegetables and buttery pastries to goat's milk ice cream and soft, eggy strands of pasta. Hugh lets me wander up and down the aisles, and I stop to watch one vendor stir a three-foot-wide paella pan, offering up piping hot bowls of tender prawns and rice to a throng of hungry customers.”

LondonMarketFood Samples
Book:Too Many Cooks
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“Mr. Maclean, the secretary of the Central Board of Health, on hearing that there was to be so large an assemblage of pure Scotchmen at the Freemason's, called upon Cuff, and told him it was his duty to guard againt all chances of infection. Mr. Cuff was directed to wash the walls thoroughly with chloride of lime, both before and after the meeting. The hall has, we are informed, undergone a complete fumegation, so that there is no cause to fear that ill consequences will arise from the circumstance of so extensive a body of our fellow-countrymen having met together.”

LondonCholeraScotsmen1832Chloride Of LimeFumegation
Book:Fraser's Magazine for Town and Country, Volume 5
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“The city which lay below was a charnel house built on multi-layered bones centuries older than those which lay beneath the cities of Hamburg or Dresden. Was this knowledge part of the mystery it held for her, a mystery felt most strongly on a bell-chimed Sunday on her solitary exploration of its hidden alleys and squares? Time had fascinated her from childhood, its apparent power to move at different speeds, the dissolution it wrought on minds and bodies, her sense that each moment, all moments past and those to come, were fused into an illusory present which with every breath became the unalterable, indestructible past. In the City of London these moments were caught and solidified in stone and brick, in churches and monuments and in bridges which spanned the grey-brown ever-flowing Thames. She would walk out in spring or summer as early as six o'clock, double-locking the front door behind her, stepping into a silence more profound and mysterious than the absence of noise. Sometimes in this solitary perambulation it seenmed that her own footsteps were muted, as if some part of her were afraid to waken the dead who had walked thse streets and had known the same silence.”

PastTimeHistoryLondon
Book:The Private Patient
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“For years, walking round London, I had been aware of the actual land, lying concealed but not entirely changed or destroyed, beneath the surface of the nineteenth- and twentieth-century city. It has been said that 'God made the country and man made the town', but that is not true: the town is simply disguised countryside. Main roads, some older than history itself, still bend to avoid long-dried marshes, or veer off at an angle where the wall of a manor house once stood. Hills and valleys still remain; rivers, even though entombed in sewer pipes, still cause trouble in the foundations of neighbouring buildings and become a local focus for winter mists. Garden walls follow the line of hedgerows; the very street-patterns have been determined by the holdings of individual farmers and landlords, parcels of land some of which can be traced back to the Norman Conquest. The situation of specific buildings - pubs, churches, institutions - often dates from long distant decisions and actions on the part of men whose names have vanished from any record.”

HistoryLondonLandscapeLocal History
Book:The Fields Beneath
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“What a shocking bad hat!' was the phrase that was next in vogue. No sooner had it become universal, than thousands of idle but sharp eyes were on the watch for the passenger whose hat shewed any signs, however slight, of ancient service. Immediately the cry arose, and, like the war-whoop of the Indians, was repeated by a hundred discordant throats. He was a wise man who, finding himself under these circumstances 'the observed of all observers,' bore his honours meekly. He who shewed symptoms of ill-feeling at the imputations cast upon his hat, only brought upon himself redoubled notice. The mob soon perceive whether a man is irritable, and, if of their own class, they love to make sport of him. When such a man, and with such a hat, passed in those days through a crowded neighbourhood, he might think himself fortunate if his annoyances were confined to the shouts and cries of the populace. The obnoxious hat was often snatched from his head and thrown into the gutter by some practical joker, and then raised, covered with mud, upon the end of a stick, for the admiration of the spectators, who held their sides with laughter, and exclaimed, in the pauses of their mirth, 'Oh, what a shocking bad hat!' 'What a shocking bad hat!' Many a nervous poor man, whose purse could but ill spare the outlay, doubtless purchased a new hat before the time, in order to avoid exposure in this manner.”

AnxietyShameLondonInsultHatsMockeryNervousnessMockingHat
Book:Extraordinary Popular Delusions and The Madness of Crowds, Volume 1
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“And the feel of the Park itself was most strange and interesting - what I noticed most was its separateness; it seemed to be smiling and amiable, but somehow aloof from the miles and miles of London all around. At first I thought this was because it belonged to an older London - Victorian, eighteenth century, earlier than that. And then, as I watched the sheep peacefully nibbling the grass, it came to me that Hyde Park has never belonged to any London - that it has always been, in spirit, a stretch of the countryside; and that it thus links the Londons of all periods together most magically - by remaining forever unchanged at the heart of the ever-changing town.”

LondonHyde Park
Book:I Capture The Castle
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“They walked past offerings displayed on trestle boards and tables... puddings, sliced beef, boiled eggs, paper scoops filled with pickles, olives, salted nuts, or hot green peas glistening with bacon fat. There were roasted potatoes wrapped in waxed paper, crisp slivers of fried fish, smoked oysters crusted with salt, and cones of hardbake sweetmeats or brandy balls. Just a few minutes earlier, Keir had been willing to overlook his hunger in favor of more important concerns. Now that he was surrounded by this profusion of food, however, his empty stomach informed him that nothing else would happen until it was filled. Merritt stopped at a stall featuring sandwiches, bread and butter, and cake. "Evenin', milady," the stallkeeper said with a respectful tip of his hat. "Mr. Gamp," she said warmly. "I've brought this gentleman to try the best ham sandwich in London." "Smoked Hampshire ham, that's the secret," the stallkeeper said proudly as he set out a pasteboard box. "That, and the missus bakes the bread herself. Barm-leavened, to make it soft and sweet.”

LondonBreadSandwichesFood WareSmoked Ham
Book:Devil in Disguise
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“U Nacionalnoj galeriji bogato je holandsko slikarstvo, tu su pre-rafaeliti, dosta majstora Renesanse, puno Van Dajka, Hogarta, sasvim malo impresionizma. Rembrantova dvorana je impozantna: 19 slika. Dva autoportreta njegova, jedan kad mu je bilo 34 godine a drugi kada je već starac, sličan onom u Luvru. Pomno ga razgledamo. Kod onog starog Rembranta čujem Crnjanskov monolog: — Dolazi starost, takav sam već ja. Kud ići dalje ? Povući se u sebe samog... Mnogo još nema putovanja... Tu primeti da ga slušam. Okrenu se: — Vidite li kako je odbacio sa sebe taštinu, kako se uvlači u svoju ljušturu, sav je duša... stari Rembrant... Drhtim dok slušam Crnjanskog. Jasno mi je da on govori najiskrenije što može, suočen s prikazom starosti kakva ga čeka, u koju ulazi a zna kakva je bila Rembrantova. Rubens-ambasador, kao Ivo-nobelovac. Doduše Crnjanski nema poverioce kao Rembrant, ali ni imanja. Slušam ovaj monolog i pravim se da ne čujem; gledam starog Rembranta koji nas skrozira svojim tavnim pogledom, a istovremeno gleda u sebe. Tonovi slike su zagasiti, senke na periferiji prelaze u svetle tonove što su bliže licu Rembrantovom. A ono rembrantovskom svetlošću osvetljeno, vide se bore na odebljaloj koži, jadne dlake, sede, na brkovima, na bradici ispod donje usne, a oči krupne. Kao da umetnik veli : “Sve sam video, čuo, okusio, sad mogu da idem...” Crnjanski nas vraća u stvarnost. — U Amsterdamu ima 16 Rembranta, u Berlinu 27, u Minhenu 10, u Luvru, kažu, 29 ali izloženo je samo pet-šest... Ja sam video sve Rembrantove slike u Evropi. Jednom smo se, Slobodan i ja, naticali ko ih je više video. On ih je sve video, izuzev jedne u Darmštatu. Tamo sam išao samo da vidim Rembranta. — E, tu vam skidam kapu, gospodine Crnjanski, rekao mu Slobodan. Proveli smo celo popodne u Galeriji. O njoj bi se imalo još mnogo pisati, ali to nije svrha ovih zapisa. Priznajem teško mi je bilo odvojiti se od ove riznice. U Rimu, Parizu, Bolonji, Veneciji imao sam više vremena. Tako se sve vidi i dobro upamti. Ali od ove najviše će ostati Rembrant i Crnjanski pred njim.”

LondonCrnjanskiRembrant
Author:Dragan R. Aćimović
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“Pause, reflect, admire, take heed of your ways—so these ancient tablets are always advising and exhorting us. One leaves the church marveling at the spacious days when unknown citizens could occupy so much room with their bones and confidently request so much attention for their virtues when we—behold how we jostle and skip and circumvent each other in the street, how sharply we cut corners, how nimbly we skip beneath motor cars. The mere process of keeping alive needs all our energy. We have no time, we were about to say, to think about life or death either, when suddenly we run against the enormous walls of St. Paul’s.”

LondonSlow DownBusy LifeSt Paul S Cathedral
Book:The London Scene: Six Essays on London Life
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“There is no river in the world to be compared for majesty and the witchery of association, to the Thames; it impresses even the unreading and unimaginative watcher with a solemnity which he cannot account for, as it rolls under his feet and swirls past the buttresses of its many bridges; he may think, as he experiences the unusual effect, that it is the multiplicity of buildings which line its banks, or the crowd of sea-craft which floats upon its surface, or its own extensive spread. In reality he feels, although he cannot explain it, the countless memories which hang for ever like a spiritual fog over its rushing current. ("The Phantom Model")”

LondonThames
Book:Gaslit Nightmares: Stories by Robert W. Chambers, Charles Dickens, Richard Marsh, and Others
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“The Thames here had a vastly different character to the wide, muddy tyrant that seethed through London. It was graceful and deft and remarkably light of heart. It skipped over stones and skimmed its banks, water so clear that one could see the reeds swaying deep down on her narrow bed. The river here was a she, he'd decided. For all its sunlit transparency, there were certain spots in which it was suddenly unfathomable.”

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Book:The Clockmaker's Daughter
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“Numerous gifted objects; black granite Etchings, carved statues, broken goddesses, Inscriptions, pottery, jewelry, rough-hewn Garnets, flowers, consecrated herbs, skulls, Gold ornaments, weapons, prized artifacts; Sacrifices, ancestors’ ageless prayers Left with olden Father Thames. For them, The sinuous streams were alive, full worlds Of votive offerings inside murky depths, Lifeblood pleas, observances thereafter Troubles now vanished, solemn promises, Treasures carefully bestowed upon Spirits, watchful deities; faithfully Invoking his ancient name Tamesas.”

LondonRiverPaganThamesOfferingsTamesaTamesasTamesis
Book:The Bones of the Poor
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“From seasonal splashes near Trewsbury European eels migrate upstream; Myriad carp, redfin perch, brook lamprey, Dragonflies, mosquitoes, wee midges, Pale cormorant, herring gulls, wagtails, Swans glide round woodland tapestry, Braided channel islands rest alone, Arched medieval stone slab bridges, Tree lines fête ash, alder, chestnut, beech. Floodplains, tangled sedge reedbeds, Owls speed above tree-covered islets, Teaming alluvium water-meadows Growing lavender, iris, marigold.”

LondonRiverThamesTamesaTamesasTamesis
Book:The Bones of the Poor
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“He reasoned, even as a young man, that traditions may linger as he walked though the oracles of time. In later years he thought his mind may one day blur, should he survive to an old age, but as he spread ink on paper, transmitted and shared with those who came after him his experiences, his own grHe reasoned, even as a young man, that traditions may linger as he walked though the oracles of time. In later years he thought his mind may one day blur, should he survive to an old age, but as he spread ink on paper, transmitted and shared with those who came after him his experiences, his own great adventures, he believed perhaps they, like he, would give way to pause to reflect on how...hard it always was to open his eyes to begin a new day. eat adventures, he believed perhaps they, like he, would give way to pause to reflect on how goddamned hard it always was to open his eyes to begin a new day.”

ActionHateHopeFamilyAdventureEnglandMurderInternationalRevengeLondonSuspenseBangkokZurich
Book:TRUE DAWN FALSE DAWN: GLOBAL COLLAPSE OF THE DO-RE-MI
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“In my own shire, if I was sad Homely comforters I had: The earth, because my heart was sore, Sorrowed for the son she bore; And standing hills, long to remain, Shared their short-lived comrade's pain. And bound for the same bourn as I, On every road I wandered by, Trod beside me, close and dear, The beautiful and death-struck year: Whether in the woodland brown I heard the beechnut rustle down, And saw the purple crocus pale Flower about the autumn dale; Or littering far the fields of May Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay, And like a skylit water stood The bluebells in the azured wood. Yonder, lightening other loads, The season range the country roads, But here in London streets I ken No such helpmates, only men; And these are not in plight to bear, If they would, another's care. They have enough as 'tis: I see In many an eye that measures me The mortal sickness of a mind Too unhappy to be kind. Undone with misery, all they can Is to hate their fellow man; And till they drop they needs must still Look at you and wish you ill.”

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Book:A Shropshire Lad
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“Lucy began cutting her sausage into rounds. “I can’t believe Christmas is almost upon us,” she mentioned. “It’ll be a hard Christmas for many,” James said. “A dark Christmas for all.” “That’s why it’s good to remember that we have the Light,” Lucy said softly. James smiled at her. “Right you are, Lucy. Right you are.”

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Book:Through the Darkness
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“Pettiness often leads both to error and to the digging of a trap for oneself. Wondering (which I am sure he didn't) 'if by the 1990s [Hitchens] was morphing into someone I didn’t quite recognize”, Blumenthal recalls with horror the night that I 'gave' a farewell party for Martin Walker of the Guardian, and then didn't attend it because I wanted to be on television instead. This is easy: Martin had asked to use the fine lobby of my building for a farewell bash, and I'd set it up. People have quite often asked me to do that. My wife did the honors after Nightline told me that I’d have to come to New York if I wanted to abuse Mother Teresa and Princess Diana on the same show. Of all the people I know, Martin Walker and Sidney Blumenthal would have been the top two in recognizing that journalism and argument come first, and that there can be no hard feelings about it. How do I know this? Well, I have known Martin since Oxford. (He produced a book on Clinton, published in America as 'The President We Deserve'. He reprinted it in London, under the title, 'The President They Deserve'. I doffed my hat to that.) While Sidney—I can barely believe I am telling you this—once also solicited an invitation to hold his book party at my home. A few days later he called me back, to tell me that Martin Peretz, owner of the New Republic, had insisted on giving the party instead. I said, fine, no bones broken; no caterers ordered as yet. 'I don't think you quite get it,' he went on, after an honorable pause. 'That means you can't come to the party at all.' I knew that about my old foe Peretz: I didn't then know I knew it about Blumenthal. I also thought that it was just within the limit of the rules. I ask you to believe that I had buried this memory until this book came out, but also to believe that I won't be slandered and won't refrain—if motives or conduct are in question—from speculating about them in my turn.”

PoliticsFriendshipUnited StatesNew YorkTelevisionEnglandBetrayalLondonJournalismOxfordPettinessArgumentationBill ClintonMother TeresaThe Guardian1990sSidney BlumenthalPresidency Of Bill ClintonDiana Princess Of WalesThe New RepublicMartin Walker ReporterMarty PeretzNightlineUniversity Of Oxford
Author:Christopher Hitchens
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