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Chapter One. He adored New York City. He idolized it all out of proportion.

(Uh, no, make that: )

He romanticized it all out of proportion. Now to him, no matter what the season was, this was still a town that existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin.

(Ahhh, now let me start this over.)

Chapter One. He was too romantic about Manhattan as he was about everything else. He thrived on the bustle of the crowds and the traffic. To him, New York meant beautiful women and street-smart guys who seemed to know all the angles.

(Nah, no... corny, too corny for my taste. I mean, let me try and make it more profound. )

Chapter One. He adored New York City. To him, it was a metaphor for the decay of contemporary culture. The same lack of individual integrity to cause so many people to take the easy way out was rapidly turning the town of his dreams in...

(No, it's gonna be too preachy. I mean, you know. Let's face it, I wanna sell some books here. )

Chapter One. He adored New York City, although to him, it was a metaphor for the decay of contemporary culture. How hard it was to exist in a society desensitized by drugs, loud music, television, crime, garbage.

(Too angry. I don't wanna be angry. )

Chapter One. He was as tough and romantic as the city he loved. Behind his black-rimmed glasses was the coiled sexual power of a jungle cat.

(I love this. )

New York was his town. And it always would be.

-- Woody Allen, Manhattan

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