Good writing is good conversation, only more so.

So this was how you died, in whispers that you did not hear.

To me heaven would be a big bull ring with me holding two barrera seats and a trout stream outside that no one else was allowed to fish in and two lovely houses in the town; one where I would have my wife and children and be monogamous and love them truly and well and the other where I would have my nine beautiful mistresses on nine different floors.

The road to Hell is paved with unbought stuffed dogs.

Oh, darling, you will be good to me, won’t you? Because we’re going to have a strange life.

I am one of those who like to stay late at the cafe," the older waiter said. "With all those who do not want to go to bed. With all those who need a light for the night." "I want to go home and into bed." "We are of two different kinds," the older waiter said. He was now dressed to go home. "It is not only a question of youth and confidence although those things are very beautiful. Each night. I am reluctant to close up because there may be someone who needs the cafe.

That terrible mood of depression of whether it's any good or not is what is known as The Artist's Reward.