Here is a hall without exit, a tunnel without end.
A boy has to peddle his book.
Lively, too. Talky as a jaybird. With something smart to say on every subject: better than the radio.
Hot weather opens the skull of a city, exposing its white brain, and its heart of nerves, which sizzle like the wires inside a lightbulb. And there exudes a sour extra-human smell that makes the very stone seem flesh-alive, webbed and pulsing.
The quietness of his tone italicized the malice of his reply.
Never demean yourself by talking back to a critic, never. Write those letters to the editor in your head, but don't put them on paper.