Unlike Boston and the towns of the Massachusetts coast, my new city of Worcester (pronounced Whustah) gets few mentions in literature. Here are the only ones I’ve ever seen:
One wet afternoon the following November, a Greyhound bus deposited Perry in in Worcester, a Massachusetts factory town of steep up-and-down streets that even in the best of weathers seem cheerless and hostile. – Truman Capote, In Cold Blood.
They were mostly third generation Irish from places like Bridgeport or Worcester, Mass. That’s what they would say: Worcester, Mass. – Never Massachusetts. – Walker Percy, The Last Gentleman
But now hope has left me, my organ’s rust, and my Facultys decay. -John Adams in his earliest surviving letter, complaining about life in Worcester.
That is pretty poor for the second biggest city in New England.
I haven’t spent much time getting to know the city, my instinct is always to escape to the lakes or woods to the northwest. The downtown is pathetic but it seems there are some more lively (and dangerous) neighborhoods on the south side. Maybe I’ll get around to visit them.