Brooklyn begins with proximity. It wrestles with what James Agee called the “mad magnetic energy” that burns non-stop across the East River. For the no-name actor and the playground baller, for the Italian restaurateur and the Haitian cab driver, for them and thousands of others, Brooklyn is the proving ground, the most fertile soil for American narratives – a stranger in a strange land, the underdog, the self-made. It’s seventy-one square miles seeded with hustle and grit and leaps of faith.
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