“…that old shithole New York where I was born… A place where I knew nothing but starvation, humiliation, despair, frustration, every god damn thing — nothing but misery. Every bloody street I looked down I see nothing but misery, nothing but monsters …today I think it’s the ugliest and shittiest city in the world…When I was a kid, there was hardly anything that we have today: no telephones; no automobiles; no nothing — really. It was rather quaint, there was even color in the buildings. But as time went on, it got more horrible to me…”
Writing Thoughts by Dead Writers, Henry Miller, Every Day We Slaughter Our Finest Impulses.
Adventures In American Writing 