I just finished Jacob Tomsky's terrifically entertaining Heads in Beds, out in paperback this week. More than an exposé of the hospitality industry, Tomsky’s memoir perfectly captures the likey/no likey that is oftentimes life in NYC:
I began to consider … everything New York had made me. When I arrived, I was like a half-carved sculpture, my personality still an undefined image. But the city wears you down, chisels away at everything you don’t need, streamlines your emotions and character until you are hard cut, fully defined, and perfect like a Rodin sculpture. That is something truly wonderful, the kind of self-crystallization not available in any other city. But then, if you stay too long, it keeps on wearing you down, chipping away at traits you cherish, character that you’ve earned. Stay forever, and it will grind you down to nothing.