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I have not won yet, but I behave, I feel and think like a rich man.

“Some men’re like that. They have to see what they’re missing.”

It’s all that I have left of “the old country,” as my mother calls it.

My mother’s city and I were both named after an assassinated king.

Living as the last artist in Manhattan: it’s the ultimate test of commitment.

He was frightened, a creature no more or less unbound by time than I am.

Kids interfere with perfection. Wives interfere. Marriage interferes.

I tell her I’m a woman now, that my boobs just popped in.

The eyes looked into his own with a meaning, a malign significance.

She was no man’s dark dream, only a girl forced to swim half-clothed.

The moment in your drunk when you become rich! A connoisseur.

If you want to know what to write, ask yourself what obsesses you.

In the rooms you picked up what you liked, like shells on a beach.

It almost makes you cry, to know that you are no longer needed.

For a month after 9/11 Bella wept through all her appointments.

If you let me live, I will buy you beer whenever I see you in town.

Flies at our dinner—Won’t eat much sings the tiny ghost of my mother.

“I—I am Martin Eden,” Martin began. (“And I want my five dollars.")

We were young and lived wild lives in the delightful city of our sojourn.

West Oakland was characterized by unemployment, poverty, and blight.

My soul is simple; it doesn’t think. Something strange paces there now.

For the president’s arrival they shot two dogs making love on the tarmac.

“Leaving for war, Hayes wept. He didn’t just cry; he wept...”

Flesh is temporary, memory a tilting barn dismantled nail by nail.

Let’s walk down to the river, bless the paper boats and turn it all into wine.

We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.

I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.

It seemed to her that they only ever touched each other in transient, sudden ways.