I have no-fail chemistry. A guy turns me on, he's the wrong one for me.

Singers come and go; the music business waxes and wanes. The blues are popular and unpopular, often at the same time.

Marcia was incredibly organized, obsessively neat ... I mean she folded her underwear like origami.

Plenty of guys are good at sex, but conversation, now there's an art.

Yiddish is the voice of exile, the tongue of ghettos, but I'll shed a tear when it joins ancient Greek and dead Latin. For gossip and insult, you can't beat Yiddish.

I never get used to it, the unknowable mystery of a person so suddenly, totally closed, snapped shut like a half-read novel.

I have no-fail chemistry. A guy turns me on, he's the wrong one for me.