The French have a phrase for it. The bastards have a phrase for everything and they are always right. To say goodbye is to die a little.

When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand.

A man who drinks too much on occasion is still the same man as he was sober. An alcoholic, a real alcoholic, is not the same man at all. You can't predict anything about him for sure except that he will be someone you never met before.

There was a sad fellow over on a bar stool talking to the bartender, who was polishing a glass and listening with that plastic smile people wear when they are trying not to scream.

Tall, aren't you?" she said. "I didn't mean to be." Her eyes rounded. She was puzzled. She was thinking. I could see, even on that short acquaintance, that thinking was always going to be a bother to her.

A real gimlet is half gin and half Rose's lime juice and nothing else.

I don’t mind if you don’t like my manners. They’re pretty bad. I grieve over them during the long winter evenings.