Truman Capote has made lying an art. A minor art.
First coffee, then a bowel movement. Then the Muse joins me.
How marvelous books are, crossing worlds and centuries, defeating ignorance and, finally, cruel time itself.
American writers want to be not good but great; and so are neither.
All children alarm their parents, if only because you are forever expecting to encounter yourself.
By 1948, the Italians had begun to pull themselves together, demonstrating once more their astonishing ability to cope with disaster which is so perfectly balanced by their absolute inability to deal with success