It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window.
One would think a writer would be happy here — if a writer is ever happy anywhere.
Such is the brutalization of commercial ethics in this country that no one can feel anything more delicate than the velvet touch of a soft buck.
The wet air was as cold as the ashes of love.
The actual writing is what you live for. The rest is something you have to get through in order to arrive at the point.
The best way to find out if you have any friends is to go broke. The ones that hang on longest are your friends. I don't mean the ones that hang on forever. There aren't any of those.