If I'd wanted this place to fill up with every fat Irish rose that passes by, I'd've said so.

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

Certain things, they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone.

If you're going to say the Jesus Prayer, at least say it to Jesus, and not to St. Francis and Seymour and Heidi's grandfather all wrapped up in one.

I thought what I'd do was I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes.

While I was walking I passed these two guys that were unloading this big Christmas tree off a truck. One guy, kept saying to the other guy, 'Hold the sonunvabitch up! Hold it up, for Chrissake!' It certainly was a gorgeous way to talk about a Christmas tree.

The rest, with very little exaggeration, was books. Meant-to-be-picked-up books. Permanently-left-behind books. Uncertain-what-to-do-with books. But books, books. Tall cases lined three walls of the room, filled to and beyond capacity. The overflow had been piled in stacks on the floor. There was little space left for walking, and none whatever for pacing.