It Is Always Self-defeating To Pretend To

Things Have Changed Very Much, Several Times, Since I Grew Up, And, Like Everyone In New York Except The Intellectuals, I Have Led Several Lives And I Still Lead Some Of Them.

There Is A Difference, Of Course, Between Real Sentiment And The Trash Of Shared Experience.

I Love The Laconic. Clearly, I Am Not Of Their Number.

My Dislike Has No Consequences. It Accrues Only In My Mind—like Preserves On A Shelf Or Guns Zeroing In, And Never Firing.

And Then There Were The Wallflowers Who Had Recognized For Years That The Thing Was Hopeless, Who Had Found In That Information A Kind Of Calm. They No Longer Tried, With A Bright And Desperate Effort, To Sustain A Conversation With Somebody's Brother, Somebody's Usher, Somebody's Roommate, Somebody's Roommate's Usher's Brother... The Category Of Wallflower Who Had Given Up On All This Was Very Quiet, Not Indifferent, Only Quiet. And She Always Brought A Book.