'I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone's away. There's something very sensuous about it - over-ripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.'
Chapter 7, The Great Gatsby, (1926).
I love the picture that these words paint. It's very aromatic, maybe of dense bakery smells falling on empty streets where the dusk shadows glide heavily and orange. Intriguing isn't it?