Mick Jagger moves like a parody between a majorette girl and Fred Astaire.
Still, when all is said, somewhere one must belong: even the soaring falcon returns to its master's wrist.
To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the inner music that words make.
I've tried to believe, but I don't, I can't, and there's no use pretending.
Brazil was beastly but Buenos Aires the best. Not Tiffany's, but almost.
There were hints of sunrise on the rim of the sky, yet it was still dark, and the traces of morning color were like goldfish swimming in ink.