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Dad is catnip to the lady residents. He’s tall and lean, plus he’s got all his hair.
He never stopped reminding me that I was born in Harmony, Georgia.
You’re going to have a difficult life if you can’t figure out where to stand.
Something is wrong with that place. Someone’s still there . . .
Literary gatherings are a nightmare because writers have no shop talk.
You’re supposed to hit is the bull’s-eye, that black spot, precise spot.
“The basis of literary friendship is mixing the poisoned bowl.”
You’ve seen her almost every day, going to and from the gardens.
Not the Olympics, the guard said. Just chuck yourself down the tube.
“O youth! The strength of it, the faith of it, the imagination of it!”
It was the way of the world: everybody wanted someone else.