London has the trick of making its past, its long indelible past, always a part of its present. And for that reason it will always have meaning for the future, because of all it can teach about disaster, survival, and redemption. It is all there in the streets.
Anna Quindlen (b.1953), Imagined London: A Tour of the World’s Greatest Fictional City, 2004
London is like a great bird-cage. She, that innocent, gentle and single-hearted, is fluttering in there along with other millions. She can’t get out. She’s at the mercy of any cold-eyed, rapacious brute who will get her into a corner.
It’s brilliant, you can’t ever get bored of London ‘cos even if you live here for like a hundred and fifty years you still won’t ever know everything about it. There’s always something new. Like, you’re walking round somewhere you’ve known since you was born and you look up and there’s an old clock on the side of a building you never seen before, or there’s a little gargoyley face over a window or something.
Down in Farringdon Street the carts, wagons, vans, cabs, omnibuses crossed and intermingled in a steaming splash-bath of mud; human beings, reduced to their due paltriness, seemed to toil in exasperation along the strips of pavement, bound on errands, which were a mockery, driven automaton-like by forces they neither understood nor could resist.