Coming for the first time upon the town, I had seen it in the sunset from a bridge, majestic above its waters, its incredible peaks and pyramids rising flowerlike and delicate from pools of violet mists to play with the flaming clouds and the first stars of evening. Then it had lighted up window by window above the shimmering tides where lanterns nodded and glided and deep horns bayed weird harmonies, and had itself become the steady firmament of dream, redolent of faery music, and one with the marvels of Carcassone and Samarcand and El Dorado and all glorious and half-fabulous cities. Shortly afterwards I was taken through those antique ways so dear to my fancy — narrow, curving alleys and passages where rows of red Georgian brick blinked with small-panel dormers above pillared doorways that had looked on gilded sedans and paneled coaches — and in the first flush of realization of these long-wished things I thought I had indeed achieved such treasures as would make me in time a poet.
— H.P. Lovecraft, "He"
Это чувак в Нью-Йорк приехал, а не туда, куда вы подумали.