Madame....gloatingly savored her words as earlier she had savored her pig's trotter.

If your vision of the world is of a certain kind you will put poetry in everything, necessarily.

Writing is not a profession but a vocation of unhappiness. I don't think an artist can ever be happy.

Trotsky rises to give me his hand, then sits at his desk, gently allowing his regard to light on my person.

If each one of us could make just one other happy, the whole world would know happiness.

Madame....gloatingly savored her words as earlier she had savored her pig's trotter.

The place smelled of fairgrounds, of lazy crowds, of nights when you stayed out because you couldn't go to bed, and it smelled like New York, of its calm and brutal indifference.