I used to drink in a bar in the village called Lion’s Head. It was full of newspaper people. The Village Voice was around the corner, and a lot of guys from the papers would come and drink. It was a great bar full of great bullshitters. I knew a fireman that drank there occasionally and he had done a book. I thought, “Wow. That could be a really good story, about firemen.” I was so against that frigging war and I thought, what’s the opposite of a soldier going and killing people they don’t know? A fireman saving people they don’t know. I got permission, and finally ended up with a rescue team that covered all of the Bronx and Harlem.
«Ah, when the heroin is in my blood, and that blood is in my head, then thank God that I’m as good as dead.» —«Heroin» the Velvet Underground
New York is an ugly city, a dirty city. Its climate is a scandal, its politics are used to frighten children, its traffic is madness, its competition is murderous.
But there is one thing about it — once you have lived in New York and it has become your home, no place else is good enough. (c) America and Americans and Selected Nonfiction
New York was a city where you could be frozen to death in the midst of a busy street and nobody would notice (c).