I hate injustice, I despise inequity, I condemn hypocrisy, I abhor the lack of reason.

Reviewing books is all about coziness. It is all of it a kind of caucus race. Women review women, Jewish writers review and praise Jewish writers, blacks review blacks, etc.

Ordinary persons, he said, smiling, found no differences between men. The artist found them all.

September: it was the most beautiful of words, he’d always felt, evoking orange-flowers, swallows, and regret.

Book-publishing is all about politics. Agents, editors, which books will be puffed, which ignored, etc.

The urge for Chinese food is always unpredictable: famous for no occasion, standard fare for no holiday, and the constant as to demand is either whim, the needy plebiscite of instantly famished drunks, or pregnancy.

There is a terrible blindness in the love that wants only to accommodate. It's not only to do with omissions and half-truths. It implants a lack of being in the speaker and robs the self of an identity without which it is impossible for one to grow close to another.