When I had a few francs, I spent them at a café on the Place de Longchamps, a block or so from my pension, where I could order a glass of Beaujolais and a plate of string beans in vinaigrette for the equivalent of fifteen cents.
Life is all getting used to what you're not used to.
I like to cook; it is, for me, a happy combination of mindlessness and purpose.
Life was an impenetrable mystery cloaked in babble.
My first job was working in a dress shop in Los Angeles in 1940, for $7 a week.
I don't know what makes a writer's voice. It's dozens of things. There are people who write who don't have it. They're tone-deaf, even though they're very fluent. It's an ability, like anything else, being a doctor or a veterinarian, or a musician.