on New York

That cannot be done, she told herself, and not only because very likely the place won't be there anymore. Even if it were, though, nothing could ever be the same: people age, things break down, feelings change. You can never go home again, even to the same place and the same people, if by chance both have remained, not the same, but simply there, in their essence. She realized that the English language could only conjugate one kind of being-- to be. Home is a memory. The only true memory: for memory is our home. And thus the only true desire of our hearts: the burning quest for our tiny, insecure paradises, buried deep within our hearts, impervious to poverty or wealth, kindness or cruelty. -- Carlos Fuentes, The Old Gringo