A Quote by Binyavanga Wainaina

I knew I didn't want to come out in the 'New Yorker'; it just felt wrong. It needed an African conversation. — © Binyavanga Wainaina
I knew I didn't want to come out in the 'New Yorker'; it just felt wrong. It needed an African conversation.
I read the 'New Yorker' when I was a kid. I used to love the cartoons and pick the cartoons out of the library, so I felt I knew the world of their cartoons.
Wikipedia is wrong! I was born in Los Angeles, not New York, but my parents and I would come here a lot, so I feel like a New Yorker.
Why on earth is the 'New Yorker' publishing puff pieces about pretty girls who go to parties? Does the 'New Yorker' ever run photos of cute boys just because they're cute and they come from money and they go to lots of parties?
Another example of what I have to put up with from him. But there was a time I was mad at all my straight friends when AIDS was at its worst. I particularly hated the New Yorker, where Calvin [Trillin] has published so much of his work. The New Yorker was the worst because they barely ever wrote about AIDS. I used to take out on Calvin my real hatred for the New Yorker.
Like 'Sex and the City' - if you're a New Yorker, you knew half the places they were going to. I want 'The Chi' to feel that way as well.
My family goes way back in New York. So I am a New Yorker; I feel like a New Yorker. It's in my bones.
My mom always brought home a present once a week for all of us. We never felt like we ever needed anything. We never felt poor. So I never felt I had to go out and do something wrong to get money.
As soon as I put on gloves, I knew. I felt heart and determination. It's in you, not on you. I just loved to fight and I knew that it was going to take me where I needed to go. I never had any doubt.
Me personally, I'm just trying to be the 'X-factor' that's needed. Whatever is needed out of me, I want to come in and provide.
In New York, all the crews read 'The New Yorker.' In Los Angeles, they don't know from 'The New Yorker.'
Lilian Ross was a - veteran writer for The New Yorker. She, in fact, brought me to The New Yorker many years ago.
I felt so out of place at the Miss India pageant. I had just come back from America, and I was told I needed to lose my American accent and learn the Queen's English, so I had to enunciate my vowels and speak well and eloquently. Giving up a New York accent is pretty hard.
I just so desperately wanted to be published in New Yorker, and I'd so desperately try to get something in it. But I'd always get nice letters back telling me that Mr. Shawn [William Shawn, the New Yorker's editor from 1952 to 1987] just didn't like this or didn't like that about what I submitted.
I knew what Saint Dane was sensing. I knew why he was confused. he thought I was done. He thought we were done. He was wrong, and that's what he was sensing. He felt our presence. I figured I might as well confirm things for him. "Pendragon, don't--," Patrick warned. I stepped out fron behind the pillar into the light. "Man, that suit is just wicked cool!" I called out.
I knew it wasn't fair, I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't help it. And after a while, the anger I felt just sort of became part of me, like it was the only way I knew how to handle the grief. I didn't like who I'd become, but I was stuck in this horrible cycle of questions and blame.
I'm a New Yorker. I always have issues with trust - you adopt it from being a New Yorker.
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