I'm sure Proust was a big bore.
Actually, I think friendship and love are exactly the same thing.
Let's take everything just as it is.
It takes a lot of bad writing to get to a little good writing.
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.
Champagne does have one regular drawback: swilled as a regular thing a certain sourness settles in the tummy, and the result is permanent bad breath. Really incurable.