“When I rode up in my elevator alone at night after work, wearing the trenchcoat and carrying my book bag, I always became flooded by a melancholy vanity, as if I were being watched through a hidden camera. ‘Here is a young woman living in New York. It’s the end of the day, and she’s going home to her apartment.’ To me, my self-conscious weariness was cinematic and fascinating. It made me feel like an adult. Now I mostly get that feeling when I’m going home in a taxi late at night, but I don’t know whether the feeling is still really mine or whether I ripped it off from ‘My Dinner with André.’”
—Nancy Franklin, ”No Place Like Home,” The New Yorker