I never felt at home. I stuck outIn New York City, especially in Greenwich Village, down among the cranks and the misfits and the one-lungers and the has-beens and the might've beens and the would-bes and the never-wills and the God-knows-whats, I have always felt at home.
The best talk is artless, the talk of people trying to reassure or comfort themselves, women in the sun, grouped around baby carriages, talking about their weeks in the hospital or the way meat has gone up, or men in saloons, talking to combat the loneliness everyone feels.
He had a habit of remarking to bartenders that he didn't see any sense in mixing whiskey with water since the whiskey was already wet.
All information of a spiritual or personal nature will have to come from our father, who art in heaven, and I think he's in New York right now.
Also, I had not yet found out about time; I was still under the illusion that I had plenty of time - time for this, time for that, time for everything, time to waste.
Life is a goddam mess...but you wouldn't want to miss it!
I have a great deal of experience in justifying myself to myself.
When I get through tearing a lobster apart, or one of those tender West Coast octopuses, I feel like I had a drink from the fountain of youth.
...you can hate a place with all your heart and soul and still be homesick for it.
My dad was a cotton buyer and cotton buyers always considered themselves superior to the rest of the world.
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