In the spring of 1988, I returned to New Orleans, and as soon as I smelled the air, I knew I was home. It was rich, almost sweet, like the scent of jasmine and roses around our old courtyard. I walked the streets, savoring that long lost perfume.

Invest in a feather duster - the possibilities are endless.

I love New Orleans physically. I love the trees and the balmy air and the beautiful days. I have a beautiful house here.

Aren't there gradations of evil? Is evil a great perilous gulf into which one falls with the first sin, plummeting to the depth?

How pathetic it is to describe these things which can't truly be described.

I think to feel this happy is to be miserable, to feel this much satisfaction is to burn.

As for oblivion, well, we can wait a little while for that.