Ryan Tim Morris > Quotes

“It was clear just how much Tommy loved the city. New York City. The CKY Grocery on Amsterdam had giant, bright red Spartan apples every day of the year, even if it wasn’t the right season. He loved that grocery, and the old, shaky Persian man who owned it. Tommy emphatically, yet erroneously believed that the CKY Grocery was the genuine heart of the great city. All five boroughs embodied distinct feelings for him, but there was only one that he’d ever truly romanticized. To him, Manhattan was the entire world.

He loved everything between the East River and the Hudson; from the Financial District up to Harlem; from Avenue A to Zabar’s. He loved the four
seasons, although autumn was easily the most anticipated. To Tommy, Central Park’s bright, almost copper hues in the fall were the epitome of orange. He loved the unique perfume of deli meats and subway steam. He loved the rain with such verve that every time it so much as drizzled, he would turn to the sky so he could feel the drops sprinkle onto his teeth. Because every raindrop that hit him had already experienced that much envied journey from the tips of the skyscrapers all the way down to the cracked and foot-stamped sidewalks. He believed every inch of the city had its own predetermined genre of music that suited it to a tee. The modal jazz of Miles Davis and Wayne Shorter was absolutely meant for the Upper East Side, north of 61st Street. Precisely between Gershwin and gospel. He loved the view from his apartment, even if it was just the leaves of the tree outside in July or the thin shadows of its bare branches crawling along the plain brick wall in January. Tommy loved his career. He loved his friends. And he loved that first big bite of apple I watched him take each and every morning.

Everything was perfect in the city, and as long as things remained the way he wanted them to, Tommy would continue to love the city forever. Which is exactly why his jaw dropped when he opened the letter he found in his mailbox that morning. The first bite of still un-chewed apple fell out of his mouth and firmly planted itself within the crack of that 113th Street
sidewalk.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“Tommy, Kate and Jesse emerged from the cab, and were hit instantly by the smell of New Jersey. The scent was like something caught between the Fulton Fish Market on a hot summer day and mildewed newspaper. Their thick-bearded driver had followed Jesse’s explicit directions without fault, but he was still a little tentative behind the wheel. After four other cabbies on Broadway said, “I no go Jersey,” (and after Tommy subsequently responded with, “I don’t blame you pal”), they finally found a driver who reluctantly agreed to take them to the once-familiar warehouse. The three of them were so calm and stiff along the way; the only signs of life in the taxi seemed to be the empty coffee cups and candy wrappers sliding back and forth across the dashboard.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“He loved the unique perfume of deli meats and subway steam. He loved the rain with such verve that every time it so much as drizzled, he would turn to the sky so he could feel the drops sprinkle onto his teeth. Because every raindrop that hit him had already experienced that much envied journey from the tips of the skyscrapers all the way down to the cracked and foot-stamped sidewalks.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“Every Halloween the Empire State Building is lit orange in celebration. On that night, the night of the falling, the skyscraper’s lights blended almost seamlessly into the red-brown glow of the evening sky. The cloud cover was so low that the lights of Times Square could be seen from just about anywhere in the city; all of Manhattan was captured within its glow. And there was a feeling within it all. It was as if a higher power had been watching New York that evening, waiting, preparing for something important to happen.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“Tommy clutched the letter in his hands for a few minutes before sliding the envelope back into his coat pocket, worrying about whatever change the future might hold. He knew well enough that Manhattan would always send signals, if only its residents could stop and feel them. The city itself breathes in with every tragedy: every obituary in the New York Times; every jackhammer upon its streets; every time a girl leaves a boy; every slight transgression that takes place within its invisible walls. And every time New Yorkers breathe a collective sigh of relief, every time they find peace in themselves, every time they find each other again, every time they bring new life into the world or enjoy a good book, or put a fresh coat of paint on an old cracked wall. Manhattan exhales. The city breathes in. The city breathes out. Breathe in. Breathe out.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“The 1-Train came to a slow stop somewhere between Columbus Circle and Lincoln Center. The lights went out and most everyone on board panicked. Tommy could easily tell which of the passengers were tourists and which were not by the levels of alarm they displayed. It was funny to him just how obvious people could sometimes be. He took the moment to appreciate the artwork spray-painted onto the tunnel walls just behind the window. There were areas of New York that Tommy knew he would never get the chance to see, which bothered him more than most anything else. It was moments like these that he savored, considering himself even luckier than he was just the moment before.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“Awful things will happen to everyone eventually. Everybody falls at some point.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“Dinner?” she asked, with one of her infamous oneword
questions. Kate didn’t like to waste words, unless of course it was to
tell someone how disappointed she was in them.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“She was an inappropriate dresser, always selecting the wrong wardrobe for any occasion. She would wear business suits for greasy coffee shop lunch dates with Tommy and Jesse, but then choose worn, tattered bohemian skirts and Jamaican knit hats for meetings with authors and literary agents. Still, she braggingly described her own fashion sense as being somewhere between a Park Avenue spinster on a bad day and a Meat-Packing District hobo on a good day.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“Defeated, Jesse sat down beside Esther, collapsing onto the cold bench. She was running something back and forth under her nose, sniffing it. It was a cinnamon stick. Forgetting all about John for a moment, he stared at her with a fresh curiosity. “What are you doing?”

“My mother loved the smell of cinnamon so much she’d rub it on her clothes.” She inhaled deeply. “Sometimes on her neck too. It’s my favorite
memory. I always keep a stick of cinnamon in my purse so I can remember her anytime I want.”

Jesse responded sincerely. “That’s nice.” He wished he could carry every scent with him that he would need to remember everyone and everything he ever loved. Licorice. The beach. Bubble gum. Dandelion weeds. Cigarettes. Ratty old comic books.

Opening her purse, Esther carefully placed the stick of cinnamon back inside and sealed it tight again. She inhaled deeply through her nose, bringing herself back to reality. She asked softly, “You’re the young man who was sleeping with Missus Galloway, aren’t you?”

Jesse glanced quickly over to John, hoping he didn’t hear her words. It was obvious he hadn’t. “How did you know that?” Jesse asked her quietly.

“Your smell was all over that house,” Esther said, tapping her nose.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“When winter hits Manhattan its attack is unrelenting. What begins as a cleansing snowfall blanketing even the ugliest streets with a white serenity soon turns into a chaotic slop of wet, gray grunge and grit. The snow continues its pursuit of tranquility however, but it will never stand a chance, disintegrating into the grubby traps of tire treads and footprints. Like a new pet, winter is loved for its first few precious moments, but it is quickly tired of by anyone but the most devoted, and it becomes an unwanted beast, requiring a constant audience to manage its disorder. Yet, even as the clouds pull themselves apart like torn denim and as the glass and concrete towers take advantage of a moment’s bleak respite by scraping the open sky once again, the city still braces itself for the next imminent wave.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“Tommy wanted to feel overwhelmed; he wanted to have a reaction that would go down as history’s all-time greatest reaction. He wasn’t sure what that response would have been, but it certainly wasn’t what he gave up instead: staring blankly at Kate as she revealed the most awful of things. He didn’t even spit the dried carrot out of his mouth; it just hung limply from his lips. The reappearance of Patrick Kohn had infected so much already, crept so far into Manhattan’s veins, that Tommy had simply reached the point where he was no longer affected by the man’s presence.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“There were very few things that Jesse Classen was completely sure of: seafood chowder, Will Eisner, and that one Savage Garden hit from the nineties that he still swore was great. He believed in the American justice system, but like the majority of Americans he clung to the hope that he would never have to be selected for jury duty. He also believed in Bigfoot, even though he knew there had never once been a shred of concrete evidence to support the creature’s actual existence.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“And Leyland worried where he could hope to find a love like hers again, when she inevitably left him. He had never once considered that a lasting love could ever be, so how could he possibly expect to ever find it?”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“Tommy was not a big believer in twists of fate or flukes or chance. Characteristically, he was not a suspicious person, but he’d never felt more wary than he had for the past week, ever since Patrick returned. One time in his life, for just a few minutes, he was sure that destiny had to be real. It was the night he snapped open the Chinese fortune cookie and found a tooth. He thought it was maybe a clue to some ancient lost fortune, but his mother just grabbed the tooth from his hand and phoned the Better Business Bureau. Wing Fung’s shut down one week later. So much for destiny.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“After a long moment Tommy said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about what I should say to Rachel.”

“What have you come up with so far?”

“I thought I’d tell her that even if everyone everywhere left everyone else forever, I’d still never leave her.” Patrick turned his nose up as if there was an unpleasant smell in the air. “No good?”

“Tom, that’s awful. That’s like a line from a movie.”

“I’ve got more. You’ve just got to let me get warmed up first. Here we go, how about this: You’ll always be the same old someone that I knew. Won’t you believe in me like I believe in you?”

“What’s that from?”

“It’s Billy Joel.”

“Come on Tom, you’re a writer! Have you told her you love her?”

“Not in so many words.”

“It’s only three words Tom. And if you really mean them, they’re pretty darn good ones.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“Green-Wood Cemetery was an expanse of nearly five-hundred acres, and Jesse wandered under portentous clouds for nearly an hour before heading to the office for proper directions. Trudging through Lot 106 with a visitors’ map in his trembling hands, Jesse wondered whether things might have been easier had graveyards been organized in a similar way to comic book collections. He imagined that if the dead could be slid into coffins of polypropylene storage bags with acid free backing boards, and then filed alphabetically first and numerically second into corrugated cardboard or plastic boxes, finding the appropriate marker would be a much easier task.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling

“She was the kind of beautiful that made the average looks of those around her seem all the more lacking. She had a smile that often made men fool themselves into thinking they loved her, but it was simply her disposition that carried such propensities behind her like a balloon on a string.”
― R. Tim Morris, The Falling