It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.

If I were God, I certainly wouldn't want people to love me sentimentally. It's too unreliable.

It's partly true, too, but it isn't all true. People always think something's all true.

I mean how do you know what you're going to do till you do it? The answer is, you don't. I think I am, but how do I know? I swear it's a stupid question.

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

As nearly as possible in the spirit of Matthew Salinger, age one, urging a luncheon companion to accept a cool lima bean, I urge my editor, mentor and (heaven help him) closest friend, William Shawn, genius domus of The New Yorker, lover of the long shot, protector of the unprolific, defender of the hopelessly flamboyant, most unreasonably modest of born great artist-editors to accept this pretty skimpy-looking book.

And I can't be running back and fourth forever between grief and high delight.