The City (n.) is a drain on the country of the best part of its population: The flower of the youth, of both sexes, goes into the towns, and the country is cultivated by a so much inferior class.
The City (n.) is an aggregate of incongruous materials which have obeyed the will of some man.
The City (n.) is disgusting like the population of cheese, like hills of ants, or swarms of fleas, but if the contain a few great men, merlins and crichtons, chaucers, inventors, farmers, and sailors who know the elements and can make them work, and can generate arts, music, and not maggots... then the more the merrier.
The City (n.) is made up of finites: Short, sharp, mathematical lines, all calculable. It is lull of varieties, of successions, of contrivances. The country, on the contrary, offers an unbroken horizon, the monotony of an endless road, of vast uniform and infinite vegetation... the objects on the road are few and worthless, the eye is invited ever to the horizon and the clouds. It is the school of the reason.
The City (n.) degrades us by magnifying trifles... life is dragged down to a fracas of pitiful cares and disasters.
The City (n.) does not give the human senses room enough.
The City (n.) forces growth and makes people talkative and entertaining, but it also makes them artificial.
The City (n.) gives us collision. London and new york take the nonsense out of a man.
The City (n.) is visited upon by the infinite on the sole terms that it will surrender to the infinite's will.
The City (n.) is subject. We are its object. What we call 'our city ways' are in fact not our ways, but hers.
The City (n.) is recruited from the country.