I live in Brooklyn. By choice.
Have you ever read A House on the Heights? It’s a love story, which is my favorite kind, about a house.
Its staircase: “floating upward in white, swan-simple curves to a skylight of sunny amber-gold glass.”
Its walls: “thick as a buffalo, immune to the mightiest cold, the meanest heat.”
Its porch: “canopied, completely submerged, as though under a lake of leaves, by an ancient but admirably vigorous vine weighty with grapelike bunches of wisteria.”
I can’t help but want to experience this house like Truman Capote. Honestly, it makes my mind swim with all things romantic and special. The fact that Truman Capote didn’t own this house or actually reside in The House (he was a basement tenant in the 1950s-1960s), makes me like 70 Willow in Brooklyn Heights even more! A House on the Heights is a tone poem for me about loving something that isn’t really yours, but you feel a kinship with it, pulling you for no other reason than true love. I get it, Mr. Capote. I really get it, and I wish I could buy 70 Willow as my own, but this isn’t going to happen because it’s currently listed for $18mn (with Sotheby’s)…