John Keats / John Keats / John / Please put your scarf on.

probably for every man there is at least one city that sooner or later turns into a girl. how well or how badly the man actually knew the girl doesn’t necessarily affect the transformation. she was there, and she was the whole city, and that’s that

I prayed for the city to be cleared of people, for the gift of being alone—a-l-o-n-e: which is the one New York prayer that rarely gets lost or delayed in channels, and in no time at all everything I touched turned to solid loneliness.

I felt so lonesome, all of a sudden. I almost wished I was dead.

People are mostly hot to have a discussion when you're not.

If there is an amateur reader still left in the world - or anybody who just reads and runs - I ask him or her, with untellable affection and gratitude, to split the dedication of this book four ways with my wife and children.

Sensitive. That killed me. That guy Morrow was about as sensitive as a toilet seat.