A street in Constantinople is a picture which one ought to see once-not oftener.
My family originally lived in Brooklyn. Our first apartment was a little place above my father and uncle's hardware store in Coney Island. Now, don't get the impression that we were surrounded by merry-go-rounds, roller coasters and Ferris wheels. Nope, this was a little side street.
I love walking down the street and seeing faces and drama and happiness and sadness and dirt and cleanliness.
In daily or everyday life, I am so impressed with tiny details, like when I look up at a street lamp falling on the street, it seems to have meaning or so much information in it.
In the swirling rain that came at dusk the broad avenue glistened with that deep bluish tint which is so widely condemned when it is put into pictures.
Today coming to work, I saw one of those only in New York scenes. It was a rat who had passed out after choking on a pretzel.
During the session of the Supreme Court, in the village of -, about three weeks ago, when a number of people were collected in the principal street of the village, I observed a young man riding up and down the street, as I supposed, in a violent passion.
I remember one little rainy day I went searching for this apartment and I saw so many people standing on a stoop on the corner in the rain. Later I realized, that was drug traffic. They were all buying drugs.
Life's just a cocktail party - on the street.
I like to sit in the window and watch the cute boys walk by.
When we got off the streetcar at Times Square, it was somewhat of a letdown. Newspapers were blowing about the road and pavement, and Broadway looked seedy, like a slovenly woman just out of bed.
Precious was one of a large number of people on the street, many of whom appeared to be women; some, like Precious, actually were.
All the girls walk by dressed up for each other, and the boys do the boogie woogie on the corner of the street.
I don't think there's a back lot here in Hollywood anymore that has those streets, like a French Quarter.
My dogs have never been good at things like "sit," "stay," or even "come." I think that we've given the tourists a few laughs, especially when the dogs hit the end of their leashes hard enough to drag Gloria down the street.
No man is uninteresting when his hat is blown off and he has to scuttle after it down the street.
And always Melbourne, Melbourne, Melbourne, over and over the same photo in glaring greens and reds, of a tram, huffy, blunderous, manoeuvring itself with pole akimbo round the tight corner where Bourke Street enters Spring.
You can take for granted that people know more or less what a street, a shop, a beach, a sky, an oak tree look like. Tell them what makes this one different.
In the cold morning the rested street stands up To greet the clerk who saunters down the world.
If you walk down the street, within five minutes you will see someone who is morbidly obese or obese.
one pale woman all alone, The daylight kissing her wan hair, Loitered beneath the gas lamps' flare, With lips of flame and heart of stone.
I love walking down Beale Street, which is home to countless cafes, restaurants and bars. Every bar has a live band, and as you walk along the street in the evening you can hear raw blues and rock n' roll spilling out of them.
The other guy I dug a lot was Burroughs because he was a smart man already; he learned it through the druggie pool - the street scene of an old aristocratic kind of man.
What we hope for from the artist is help in discovering the significance of a place. In this sense we would choose in most respects for thirty minutes with Edward Hopper’s painting Sunday Morning to thirty minutes on the street that was his subject; with Hopper’s vision we see more.
I love to people watch.
