The City of New York is like an enormous citadel, a modern Carcassonne. Walking between the magnificent skyscrapers one feels the presence on the fringe of a howling, raging mob, a mob with empty bellies, a mob unshaven and in rags.
The crowds in the big towns, with their mild, knobby faces, their bad teeth and gentle manners solid breakfasts and gloomy Sundays, smoky towns and winding roads, green fields and red pillar boxes.
The Moscow of these pageants is the old core city with its buildings of pastel hues and white trim that, with the season's continual dustings of snow, appear to be the work of confectioners.
The New Yorker has devoted itself for 59 years not only to facts and literal accuracy but to truth. And truth begins, journalistically, with the facts.
The siren south is well enough, but New York, at the beginning of March, is a hoyden we would not care to miss-a drafty wench, her temperature up and down, full of bold promises and dust in the eye.
Tonight the city is full of morgues, and all the toilets are overflowing. There's shopping malls coming out of the walls, as we walk out among the manure. That's why I pay no mind.
This website focuses on proverbs in the Swedish, Danish and Norwegian languages, and some parts including the links below have not been translated to English. They are mainly FAQs, various information and webpages for improving the collection.
This website focuses on proverbs in the Swedish, Danish and Norwegian languages, and some parts including the links below have not been translated to English. They are mainly FAQs, various information and webpages for improving the collection.