Yet a real artist, I've noticed, will survive anything. (Even praise, I happily suspect.)
He was one of those guys that think they're being a pansy if they don't break around forty of your fingers when they shake hands with you. God I hate that stuff.
I'm one of the little foxes that spoil the grapes.
I have so much I want to tell you, and nowhere to begin.
John Keats / John Keats / John / Please put your scarf on.
My god, there's absolutely nothing tenth-rate about you, and yet you're up to your neck at this minute in tenth-rate thinking.