“I have a very dear friend, a great painter, called me up very upset, the work wasn’t going well… He asked me to come to his studio -- which I did -- I looked around at the work, dozens of sketches, drawings, large pictures, and I was very close to his work, intensely involved with his work, and he asked me, ‘What’s wrong?’ And I said, ‘Simple – it’s a loss of nerve.”

“I've taken care of it," I saidMy father looked at me, shocked.Then I realized "taken care of" had a very specific meaning in his line of work."No, no, I mean he's gone.”

“A friend came to visit James Joyce one day and found the great man sprawled across his writing desk in a posture of utter despair.James, what’s wrong?' the friend asked. 'Is it the work?'Joyce indicated assent without even raising his head to look at his friend. Of course it was the work; isn’t it always?How many words did you get today?' the friend pursued.Joyce (still in despair, still sprawled facedown on his desk): 'Seven.'Seven? But James… that’s good, at least for you.'Yes,' Joyce said, finally looking up. 'I suppose it is… but I don’t know what order they go in!”

“Plenty of patrons had asked me strange things, but this was the first who asked me where my car was parked. It was almost comical to look at the man, because he actually thought I was going to tell him. I struggled to come up with a reply, but the best I could muster was, "That's personal." What I meant to say was, "Sir, the fact that I work in a public library doesn't make me stupid, it just makes me poor. There's no way I'm going to tell you—a psychotic person who could very well have a knife in his pocket—where I have parked my car.”

“No," he said, and he snapped his fingers. "You'll come work for me at K----. And be a real associate editor."I said, "I could bring you up on charges for that.""What?""Work harassment in the sexual place.”

“Are you going to kiss me?" I blabbered stupidly."I'm working up the nerve," he said softly.”