“one day Manuel returned to the place, andshe was gone - no argument, no note, justgone, all her clothesall her stuff, andManuel sat by the window and looked outand didn't make his jobthe next day or thenext day orthe day after, hedidn't phone in, helost his job, got aticket for parking, smokedfour hundred and sixty cigarettes, gotpicked up for common drunk, bailedout, wentto court and pleadedguilty.when the rent was up he moved from Beacon street, heleft the cat and went to live with his brother andthey'd get drunkevery nightand talk about how terriblelife was.Manuel never again smokedlong slim cigarsbecause Shirley always saidhowhandsome he lookedwhen he did.”

“it was like any other relationship, there wasjealousy on both sides,there were split-ups and reconciliations.there were also fragmented moments ofgreat peace and beauty.I often tried to get away from her andshe tied to get away from mebut it was difficult:Cupid, in his strange way, was reallythere.”

“I remembered my New Orleans days, living on two five-cent candy bars a day for weeks at a time in order to have leisure to write. But starvation, unfortunately, didn't improve art. It only hindered it. A man's soul was rooted in his stomach. A man could write much better after eating a porterhouse steak and drinking a pint of whiskey than he could ever write after eating a nickel candy bar. The myth of the starving artist was a hoax.”

“The dog approached again, cautiously. I found the bologna sandwich, ripped off a chunk, wiped the cheap watery mustard off, then placed it on the sidewalk.The dog walked up to the bit of sandwich, put his nose to it, sniffed, then turned and walked off. This time he didn't look back. He accelerated down the street.No wonder I had been depressed all my life. I wasn't getting proper nourishment. ”

“He was always high on drugs. I was not a drug man, but in case I wanted to hide from myself for a few days, I knew I could get anything I wanted from him.”

“we had goldfish and they circled around and aroundin the bowl on the table near the heavy drapescovering the picture window and my mother, always smiling, wanting us allto be happy, told me, “be happy, Henry!” and she was right: it’s better to be happy if youcanbut my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while raging inside his 6-foot-2 frame because he couldn’t understand what was attacking him from within. my mother, poor fish, wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times aweek, telling me to be happy: “Henry, smile!why don’t you ever smile?”and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was thesaddest smile I ever saw. one day the goldfish died, all five of them, they floated on the water, on their sides, theireyes still open,and when my father got home he threw them to the cat there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mothersmiled.A smile to remember”

“you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punchthe radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehowget through the slow days and the busy days and the dulldays and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightfuland so disappointing becausewe are all so alike and so different.”