Because we would not wear any clothes because it was so hot and the windows open and the swallows flying over the roofs of the houses and when it was dark afterward and you went to the window very small bats hunting over the houses and close down over the trees and we would drink capri and the door locked and it hot and only a sheet and the whole night and we would both love each other all night in the hot night in Milan. That was how it ought to be.

You’ll ache. And you’re going to love it. It will crush you. And you’re still going to love all of it.

Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?

Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light.

When I saw my wife again standing by the tracks as the train came in by the piled logs at the station, I wished I had died before I had ever loved anyone but her.

Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long.

There are events which are so great that if a writer has participated in them his obligation is to write truly rather than assume the presumption of altering them with invention.