Dive Bar Quotes

If you love your girl? Buy her books.

Thank god for coffee. Coffee understood. Coffee was my friend.

You've got drama too?" A shrug. "Doesn't everyone?" "A side effect of breathing, I guess?

SEPTEMBER 1, 1939 I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade: Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright And darkened lands of the earth, Obsessing our private lives; The unmentionable odour of death Offends the September night. Accurate scholarship can Unearth the whole offence From Luther until now That has driven a culture mad, Find what occurred at Linz, What huge imago made A psychopathic god: I and the public know What all schoolchildren learn, Those to whom evil is done Do evil in return. Exiled Thucydides knew All that a speech can say About Democracy, And what dictators do, The elderly rubbish they talk To an apathetic grave; Analysed all in his book, The enlightenment driven away, The habit-forming pain, Mismanagement and grief: We must suffer them all again. Into this neutral air Where blind skyscrapers use Their full height to proclaim The strength of Collective Man, Each language pours its vain Competitive excuse: But who can live for long In an euphoric dream; Out of the mirror they stare, Imperialism's face And the international wrong. Faces along the bar Cling to their average day: The lights must never go out, The music must always play, All the conventions conspire To make this fort assume The furniture of home; Lest we should see where we are, Lost in a haunted wood, Children afraid of the night Who have never been happy or good. The windiest militant trash Important Persons shout Is not so crude as our wish: What mad Nijinsky wrote About Diaghilev Is true of the normal heart; For the error bred in the bone Of each woman and each man Craves what it cannot have, Not universal love But to be loved alone. From the conservative dark Into the ethical life The dense commuters come, Repeating their morning vow; 'I will be true to the wife, I'll concentrate more on my work,' And helpless governors wake To resume their compulsory game: Who can release them now, Who can reach the dead, Who can speak for the dumb? All I have is a voice To undo the folded lie, The romantic lie in the brain Of the sensual man-in-the-street And the lie of Authority Whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die. Defenseless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame.

Do not make me fuck you against this door, Lydia.” Everything inside me squeezed tight. “God, that sounds good. Let’s do that.” “Shit.

How'd you get through yesterday, though?" "Running away, you, sarcasm, violence, and last but not least, tequila.

Trust me, never mock a romance book,” said Mal with all the zest of a manic street preacher. “You have no idea the amount of good they can do for you between the sheets and on the streets. If you love you girl? Buy her books.

When something is no longer working, changing your plans is not giving up. It's not failure.

Life is hard. Terrible things happen. We all have feelings. We're all just flesh and blood, trying to do our best.

I just want you to know, I will not be falling slave to your devil dick and demon tongue. No matter how good they are.

Angry words didn't stop the world from turning round.

So this was what having friends involved. Maybe I should just get a pet rock or something. A plant, maybe. Anything incapable of answering back. Once

You sure no one hit you?" He did not sound convinced. "Yes. I lose my grip and hit the floor when I was climbing in the window. My home invasion skills need work." "I'd suggest you try a different career path.

I'm going to kill you." "Babe, calm down," Vaughan whispered in my ear. "Let me go." "Don't think that's a good idea. You wanted to stay out of jail, remember?" "I want to kill him more," I panted. "Much, much more.

Can’t stop touching you,” he said. “Please don’t.” “Why the hell haven’t we been doing this before now,” he whispered in my ear, breathing heavy. “Because we’re idiots?

Fuck's sake." Vaughan hefted me up, holding me closer. "No one in this town respect property rights anymore?" "You should really lock your doors," I mumbled, giving up the struggle. "Windows too." He grunted, unamused.

Truth be told, my emergency escape plan was a little flawed. At least I'd made it over the fence.

You need to slow it down some, hide from the world more, and learn how to say no like me. When in doubt, don’t answer the phone or the door. It’s always people.

Do you believe in crazy at first sight?” Lines creased his brown. “What?” “I’m not down with the whole L-word and I don’t think this, whatever this is, is that. So don’t freak out and suddenly accuse me of being a stage-ten clinger or something, got it?” “Okay.” He looked amused. “But what if there was crazy at first sight? Because I think we have a credible basis for that.

When women read romance books, one of two things generally happen.” Mal ran a hand through his lovely locks. “They either want to discuss the book in great depth. And probably, life and your relationship. Now sometimes that’s okay. You reach a higher level of understanding with each other and shit. But sometimes it sucks, pure and simple. You wind up getting bitched at for days because of something the dude in the book did that makes you look bad. But if it’s an awesome book, however, a hot one? Well then … kinky fuckery like you wouldn’t believe, man. The ideas Pumpkin has gotten out of some of those books. Gold. I could never have talked her into trying half of that stuff.

The thing is, sometimes, you just have to teach people a lesson. Either that or resort to homicide, and I'd rather not go to jail.

Nipples are little beasts, always reacting to everything, especially when you’d rather they be discreet. There’s a reason titillation starts with the word “tit.

He wore a fluorescent green T-shirt with a large picture of Malcolm Ericson from Stage Dive on the front, and a matching fluorescent pink hat. “Mal for President” had been embroidered on the hat. Guess he really loved the drummer from Stage Dive. A lot.

I’m putting all my drama on you again.” He hung his head. “Yeah, you are.” “I’m so sorry.” … “On the plus side, when you get worked up your tits start heaving up and down with each breath. Magnificent. Honestly, I can’t get enough of it.” Little lines appeared on his forehead as his hands demonstrated the apparently bouncy-boob-like motions in front of his chest. “I’m tempted just to say shit to get you started, I love it so much.” In the face of his broad grin, I had nothing.

What to go out with me tonight after work, Vaughan?” … “You asking me out on a date, Lydia?” “Yes,” I said. “I am.” “Babe, I’d love to.” His hand rose to the back of my neck, stroking, drawing me closer. Hot damn, did he have the moves. The man turned my mind to mush. “Something you need to know,” he said. “Before tonight.” “What’s that?” “I put out on the first date,” he told me with a perfectly straight face. “That okay with you?” “Oh, I’m counting on it” … “I mean…it would have been so awkward if you expected me to respect you for your mind or something. Yikes, how embarrassing. Between you and me, I’m really only interested in getting into your pants.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m sure you’re a nice guy and all, but, priorities, you know?” “I know.” The man’s smile would have made a nun think twice. I never stood a chance.

I'm not even sure I can explain it anymore. And you don't want to understand it, you want to mock it.

Damn, he was hot. The kind of hot that only got better with age and experience.

I will not rain on people’s parades with unnecessary practicalities they can figure out for themselves.

As eyebrows went, Nell's lest one was particularly vocal.

You’re in me. Have been since the first day I met you. I fought it for a while, but that’s over.” “You’re in me too.” “Good … ‘Cause that’s where I’m going to stay.” I buried my face against his chest. Damn tears. “I mean that literally too,” he whispered against my ear. “You get that right?

I stared at him, memorizing every detail for a later date, when I didn't want to burn him down or burst into tears.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, I wouldn't give up a second with you for all the months of being lied to and manipulated by him, as insane as that sounds. That's all. The end.

You wouldn’t believe how hard it was, keeping my eyes on his face. The struggle was real.

Clearly, there were far more northern Idaho sex gods than I’d given the region credit for.

I’d broken into his house, but he’d somehow broken into me, cracked me wide open, exposing me to so much more of life than what had existed before. And

Life is like taking off a girl’s bra. You never know exactly what you’re gonna get, but however it turns out, it’s basically awesome.

It’s good to see you relax.” He leaned in closer. “Between you and me, you can be a little high strung sometimes.” “Which is completely cool and super-desirable, thank you very much.” “Abso-fucking-lutely.” The laughter in his eyes was beatific.

Apology accepted,” I said. “Good.” “Be warned, though, I’m practicing to become a better feminist.” I rolled onto my back, staring at his luminous eyes in the dark. “The whole Chris thing was a kick to the clit, but I’m working hard to set myself straight now. I own this body. My fate is mine.” “Okay,” he said slowly, meshing his fingers with mine. “Where is this going?” “I just want you to know, I will not be falling slave to your devil dick and demon tongue. No matter how good they are.

Who dies best, the soldier who falls for your sake, or the fly in my whiskey-glass? The happy agony of the fly is his reward for an adventurous dive in no cause but his own. Gorged and crazed, he touches bottom, knows he's gone as far as he can go, and bravely sticks. I sleep on. In the morning I pour new happiness upon the crust of the old, and only as I raise the glass to my lips descry through that rich brown double inch my flattened hero. I drink around his death, being no angler by any inclination, and leave him in the weird shallows. The glass set down, I idle beneath the fan, while beyond my window-bars a warm drizzle passes silently from clouds to leaves. How to die? How to live? These questions, if we ask the dead fly, are both answered thus: In a drunken state. But drunk on WHAT should we all be? Well, there's love to drink, of course, and death, which is the same thing, and whiskey, better still, and heroin, best of all—except maybe for holiness. Accordingly, let this book, like its characters, be devoted to Addiction, Addicts, Pushers, Prostitutes and Pimps. With upraised needles, Bibles, dildoes and shot glasses, let us now throw our condoms in the fire, unbutton our trousers, and happily commit THIS MULTITUDE OF CRIMES.

At least I had my memories of him bare ass naked to keep me happy in the meantime. And trust me, there was real happiness to be had in having seen this man naked. My dreams had better be full of him, or I and my subconscious would be having a serious talk.

It’s like you have some sort of breast obsessive compulsive disorder. Have you considered seeking counselling for your addiction?’ He sighed, face carefully set ‘nothing wrong with a man admiring a fine female chest but if you disagree feel free to hold it against me.

Clearly, there were far more northern Idaho sex gods than I’d given the region credit for. Further classifications were going to be required. If Vaughan topped the super-cool category, then maybe this new guy should win on the lumbersexual front. Given my abrupt return to singledom, I’d have to give this important man-classification system more thought. Disclaimer: Objectifying people is wrong and stuff.

Trust me, never mock a romance book,” said Mal with all the zest of a manic street preacher. “You have no idea the amount of good they can do for you between the sheets and on the streets. If you love your girl? Buy her books.” A

Yes. But prepare yourself, there’s going to be a lot of cuddling tonight.” “Ew.” I scrunched up my nose at him. “I know, I know. But you’re going to have to be brave and put up with it.” Quietly, I laughed. “I think I can do that.

Anyone who’d stop feeling up or finger banging a woman in favour of taking a fucking phone call is an inconsiderate asshole you shouldn’t be opening your legs for.” “I’m seeing that now.” “I’m serious, Lydia.” I studied the tabletop, needing a moment to pull myself together. “How long have we known each other? What, half an hour, an hour?” “Ah.” Turning in his seat, he checked out an old wooden clock on the kitchen wall. “Yeah. about that.” “Are you aware that most people wait a little longer before discussing the rules of etiquette in regards to finger banging? Who they should and shouldn’t open their legs for? Things like that.” “That so?” “It is.” “Well, fuck.” He sat back, outright grinning at me.

But it's Atlanta that can lay claim to the best of the best (which is to say worst) chef-friendly dives in America: the legendary Clermont Lounge, a sort of lost-luggage department for strippers, who perform—perfunctorily—on a stage behind the bar.

I am a shadow. I walk the wet roads under the dim light of the pale lamps, in the darkest hour of the cold dull nights. I walk past the silent graveyard of the dead memories, towards the city of chaos plagued with gloom. I do not exist, but in the eyes of the shattered souls. In the chapter of an old book. In the poem. In the smile of a wrecked and in the tear of a broken spirit. Listen me in the songs told in the times long forgotten. Search for me in the churchs and temples, bars and brothels,pitch black nights and the colorless days. Dive down in your deepest part of your soul. And you will find my home. I have many faces but I have no face of my own. I am a shadow.

When in doubt, don’t answer the phone or the door. It’s always people.

Maybe not drinking anything with an alcohol percentage for a while was the way to go. Also, Eric must die. Enablers were bad, evil people. The world must be purged of them.

A part of her, the female, horny part she generally tried to ignore, sat up and took notice when he smiled, the shameless hussy.

Teeth gritted, he gazed down at me. "Now that I come to think about it. I'm not real keen on your eye color, either. What do you call that shade of green? Fungus?

Outside, with the exception of the occasional horny bug sending out its booty call,

It’s just complicated.” “No.” I shook my head. “It’s simple.” My mouth moved to hers, my voice a whisper. “Where you go, I go.

Depending who you ask, the Pen & Pencil is either the oldest press club in America "the place I score coke

but in general, if possible, it’s best to not be completely nude in unfamiliar abandoned dive bars.

followed Caden to a little dive bar in a strip mall along TV highway where there were a bunch of Harleys in the lot surrounded by bikers.

I have to admit my Elomi bridal lingerie was exquisite. I’d been so certain it would wow Chris, spur him into some post-matrimonial lustfulness. What a joke. A strap-on might have been a better idea.

opened my eyes, rolling my head in his direction. “Do something for me?” I asked. “What?” “If you honestly believe there’s a chance I had sex with Eric tonight, be a good boy and shove that guitar where the sun doesn’t shine.” His

I thought he’d last a few months and then grow weary of my insistence on sleeping at home—alone—every night. How sometimes dark places like movie theaters or dive bars made me nervous. “Take your time,” Scott had said, over and over again. “You’re worth it.

If I amount to anything it’ll be as part of a band. That’s it. I’ll be playing dive bars and shitty clubs, and I’ll get high in the alleys and do lines in the bathrooms, and eventually I’ll OD and that’ll be that.” I glance ad her. “Is that the life you want?

I will be thirty years old again in thirty seconds. I will take the best room in the Grand Central or the Orndorff Hotel. I will dine on oysters and palomitas and wash them down with white wine. Then I will go to the Acme or Keating's or the Big Gold Bar and sit down and draw my cards and fill an inside straight and win myself a thousand dollars. Then I will go to the Red Light or the Monte Carlo and dance the floor afire. Then I will go to a parlor house and have them top up a bathtub with French champagne and I will strip and dive into it with a bare-assed blonde and a redhead and an octoroon and the four of us will get completely presoginated and laugh and let long bubbly farts at hell and baptize each other in the name of the Trick, the Prick, and the Piper-Heidsick.

I stared off into space, visions of Chris’s bloody severed penis dancing through my head. Violent tendencies weren’t my natural setting. Chris, however, had all but walked me to the edge of reason and pushed me over. Garden shears would be wonderful. Also an ax. I bet axes were awesome for working out aggression. Probably fantastic for building upper body strength too. Hooray for multitasking.

Sorry! Can't!' said Gilbert. 'Massage,' he explained, then exited the bar, apparently via catapult. 'Philip?' Claire said. My first impulse was to follow Gilbert's lead by briskly dismounting the couch and diving through the Gilbert-shaped hole he'd left in the wall on departing.

There was music from my neighbor's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before. Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York--every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler's thumb. At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby's enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-d'oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another. By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing up-stairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors, and hair shorn in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other's names. The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph, glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and color under the constantly changing light. Suddenly one of the gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray's understudy from the FOLLIES. The party has begun.

Marriages are nesting dolls, too. We carry each iteration: the marriage we had before the children, the marriage of love letters and late nights at dive bars and train rides through France; the marriage we had after the children, the marriage of tenderness but transactional communication—who’s doing what, and when, and how—and early mornings and stroller walks and crayon on the walls and sunscreen that always needs to be reapplied; the marriage we had toward the end before we knew there was an end, the marriage of the silent treatment and couch sleeping and the occasional update email. Somewhere at the center is the tiniest doll. Love. The love that started everything. It’s still there, but we’d have to open and open and open ourselves—our together selves—to find it. I can’t bear to think of it in there somewhere, the love. Like the perfect pit of some otherwise rotten fruit.

You know when you meet someone and there’s just that feeling?” She didn’t respond. “It’s like it’s fate. There’s just that zap in the air and you know it’s got to happen eventually. And when it does, it’s going to be spectacular.” I opened one eye, beyond pleased to see her trying to hide a smile. “Right, Jean?

Besides, the kettle was aggravating and obstinate. It wouldn't allow itself to be adjusted on the top bar; it wouldn't hear of accommodating itself kindly to the knobs of coal; it would lean forward with a drunken air and dribble, a very Idiot of a kettle, on the hearth. It was quarrelsome, and hissed and spluttered morosely at the fire. To sum up all, the lid, resisting Mrs. Peerybingle's fingers, first of all turned topsy-turvey, and then with an ingenious pertinacity deserving of a better cause, dived sideways in - down to the very bottom of the kettle. And the hull of the Royal George has never made half the monstrous resistance to coming out of the water, which the lid of that kettle employed against Mrs. Peerybingle, before she got it up again. It looked sullen and pig-headed enough, even then: carrying its handle with an air of defiance, and cocking its spout pertly and mockingly at Mrs. Peerybingle as if it said, "I won't boil. Nothing shall induce me!

Life is an art of managing conflicts—conflicts between our expectations and perceptions. It is like a tightrope walk. We load our expectations from life on one end of the bar and our perceptions about life on other, and move on the rope, relying on the balance of the stick. Overload, on any end, can fling us down, ruining the remaining journey. Some might survive such falls through repeated mood swings or with emotional breakdowns, while some might go down, diving deep into the bottom of depression.

But when we go in, watch where you step.” “Why?” Taking her arm, he started for the entrance, again surveying the area all around them. “You have land mines hidden around?” Priss ignored him. “It’s this way.” She took the lead, steering him toward the side entrance. Nearby police sirens screamed, competing with music from the bar next door. “I’m on the second floor.” They passed a hooker fondling a man against the brisk facing of the building. Priss stepped over and around a broken bottle. Tires squealed and someone shouted profanities. Distaste left a sour expression on Trace’s face. “This dive needs to be condemned.” “Maybe, but it’s shady enough that no one asked me any questions when I checked in.” “It’s also shady enough that you could get mugged, raped or murdered in the damned lot and no one would notice.” Priss shook her head. “I’m not worried about that.” They went up the metal stairs, precariously attached to the structure. After muttering a rude sound, Trace said, “There’s a lot you should be worried about, but aren’t.

If you love your girl? Buy her books.” A

College football was a religion in Alabama, and Saturdays in the fall were holy days.

Fall in Alabama was menopausal: hot one moment and cold the next.

Crazy was a bit of a whore, god bless her.

Yes, your sofa is cunningly hidden down the front of my dress. You won’t believe where I fit the TV.” Again,

Men sucked more than any known creature.

You're going to end up like one of those crazy cat ladies with your apartment smelling of piss and regret.

Bitches be everywhere.

You’ve got drama too?” A shrug. “Doesn’t everyone?” “A side effect of breathing, I guess.” He

Man, I still couldn’t believe this was happening. God hated me or something. Pregnant women and me were enema. Anathema. Whatever.

Holy shit, were we complicating things. We were out of control. "Building?" Asked Eric, voice heavy with disbelief. "Yes." Teeth gritted, I smiled. "Banging, screwing," said Joe. "you know.

Something switches in mee in this vegan mayonnaise-filled moment. All my patience is gone. I'm in a vegan dive bar, smelling beer I don't care to drink with basketball and football games I don't care to watch blaring from the excessive amount of TVs around me. I'm sitting on a bar stool with uneven legs opposite of a man I no longer love. I am numb. I am done. Look, I just am.

The place wasn’t a hospital so much as a giant maze. Honestly, walking into fucking Mordor would have been both faster and easier. Seemed likely the kid would be born, grown-up, and have gotten a college degree before I arrived.

I was starting to remember the whole problem now: I hate these fucking people [people at Tea Party rallies, ed]. It's never been just political, it's personal. I'm not convinced anyone in this country except the kinds of weenies who thought student council was important really cares about large versus small government or strict constructionalism versus judicial activism. The ostensible issues are just code words in an ugly snarl of class resentment, anti-intellectualism, old-school snobbery, racism, and who knows what else - grudges left over from the Civil War, the sixties, gym class. The Tea Party likes to cite a poll showing that their members are wealthier and better educated than te general populace, but to me they mostly looked like the same people I'd had to listen to in countless dive bars railing against "edjumicated idiots" and explaining exactly how Nostradamus predicted 9/11, the very people I and everyone I know fled our hometowns to get away from. So far all my interactions at the rally were only reinforcing my private theory - I suppose you might call it a prejudice - that liberals are the ones who went to college, moved to the nearest city where no one would call them a fag, and now only go back for holidays; conservatives are the ones who married their high school girlfriends, bought houses in their hometowns, and kept going to church and giving a shit who won the homecoming game. It's the divide between the Got Out and the Stayed Put. This theory also account for the different reactions of these two camps when the opposition party takes power, raising the specter of either fascist or socialist tyranny: the Got Outs always fantasize about fleeing the country for someplace more civilized - Canada, France, New Zealand; the Stayed Put just di further in, hunkering down in compounds, buying up canned goods and ammo.

Sorry,” she said. “I’m probably making you uncomfortable.” “It’s fine,” I said, not thinking about having any kind of sex with Jean to the best of my ability. My ability sucked. “We’re friends. You can talk about anything with me. Even the sloth.

Things as I knew them were just props.My happiness needed to come from me.I could build my own home,make a future for myself.Not rely on someone else to come along and magically make me feel like I had worth,as if I belonged.I could be strong on my own.

Because the same as any man, women were entitled to a fuss-free sex life should they so choose. And it didn’t make us sluts, or whores, or any of the other nasty, misogynistic, double-standard bullshit that got thrown a woman’s way when she didn’t fit with the traditional ideals of who and what a female should be.

noted Philby’s unique sartorial swagger: “The old Secret Service professionals were given to spats and monocles long after they passed out of fashion,” but the new intake of officers could be seen “slouching about in sweaters and gray flannel trousers, drinking in bars and cafés and low dives … boasting of their underworld acquaintances and liaisons. Philby may be taken as a prototype and was indeed, in the eyes of many of them, a model to be copied.” Elliott began to dress like Philby. He even bought the same expensive umbrella from James Smith & Sons of Oxford Street, an umbrella that befitted an establishment man of the world, but one with panache.

Did he really say he was going to miss me? Maybe he had and it didn’t mean anything major. You could run out of ketchup and miss it without a crushing sense of deprivation overwhelming your life. It was, after all, just a condiment. I might well be the current pick of the condiments in his life. But he’d still eat a hamburger without me. A

Alone meant absolutely no one giving me shit, involving me in shit, or generally being a shit. Alone didn't care what you wore or how many days it'd been since you washed your hair or shaved your pits. Alone accepted you exactly how you were. It never lied to me or let you down. For all of these reasons and more, I loved alone. We'd probably wed.

Notte raminga e fuggitiva lanciata veloce lungo le strade d’Emilia a spolmonare quel che ho dentro, notte solitaria e vagabonda a pensierare in auto verso la prateria, lasciare che le storie riempiano la testa che così poi si riposa, come stare sulle piazze a spiare la gente che passeggia e fa salotto e guarda in aria, tante fantasie una sopra e sotto all’altra, però non s’affatica nulla. Correre allora, la macchina va dove vuole, svolta su e giù dalla via Emilia incontro alle colline e alle montagne oppure verso i fiumi e le bonifiche e i canneti. Poi tra Reggio e Parma lasciare andare il tiramento di testa e provare a indovinare il numero dei bar, compresi quelli all’interno delle discoteche e dei dancing all’aperto ora che è agosto e hanno alzato persino le verande per godersi meglio le zanzare e il puzzo della campagna grassa e concimata. Lungo la via Emilia ne incontro le indicazioni luminose e intermittenti, i parcheggi ampi e infine le strutture di cemento e neon violacei e spot arancioni e grandifari allo iodio che si alzano dritti e oscillano avanti e indietro così che i coni di luce si intrecciano alti nel cielo e pare allora di stare a Broadway o nel Sunset Boulevard in una notte di quelle buone con dive magnati produttori e grandi miti. Ne immagino ventuno ma prima di entrare in Parma sono già trentatré, la scommessa va a puttane, pazienza, in fondo non importa granché.

Dazzlement and enchantment are Bester’s methods. His stories never stand still a moment; they’re forever tilting into motion, veering, doubling back, firing off rockets to distract you. The repetition of the key phrase in “Fondly Fahrenheit,” the endless reappearances of Mr. Aquila in “The Star-comber” are offered mockingly: try to grab at them for stability, and you find they mean something new each time. Bester’s science is all wrong, his characters are not characters but funny hats; but you never notice: he fires off a smoke-bomb, climbs a ladder, leaps from a trapeze, plays three bars of “God Save the King,” swallows a sword and dives into three inches of water. Good heavens, what more do you want?

Books had always been a comfort to her. More than comfort. There were times when reading came close to an addiction. When things had been tough at home, Harriet’s solution had been to remove herself from life and disappear. She’d chosen to be invisible. Sometimes physically, by hiding under the table, but sometimes psychologically by diving into a literary world unlike her own. As a child she’d liked to sink into the pages and lose herself for hours at a time. When she was reading, she didn’t just leave her own life behind, she stepped into someone else’s. There were times when she’d read for hours without noticing the passage of time or the onset of darkness. When it grew too dark to read, she simply switched on her flashlight and read under the covers so that she didn’t disturb her sister, who was sleeping in the next bed. At school, she carried her book around. When things were difficult, the weight of her bag would comfort her. It helped just to know the book was there, waiting for her. At various points in the day she’d feel the edges bump against her thigh, reminding her of its existence. It was like having a friend close by, telling her I’m still here and we can spend time together later. Even now, more than a decade on from that difficult time of her life, she found herself instinctively reaching for a book when she was stressed. Comfort was different things to different people. To some it was a bar of chocolate or a glass of wine, a run in the park or coffee with a friend. To Harriet, it was a book.

If you want, I’ll show them to you later.” “Sorry, what?” My gaze returned to her face. Only to have her point to her breasts. “I said, I can show them to you sometime if you want.” “I would like that very much.” “Okay then.” She grinned. “Next make-out session, no shirts. Agreed?” I was a total winner at life. Forget how much money currently sat in my bank account. Ignore my maturity levels and emotional stability or lack thereof. Jean had offered to show me her tits. The year had only just started and mine was already made.

I want you with me.” Another kiss was placed on my face. “But don’t rush into making a decision. I don’t want you regretting anything.” “We’ll figure it out.” I smiled, soaking in the scent of him, the feel of his slick suit and thick shoulder beneath my cheek. The brush of his beard against the top of my head. Heaven. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Love you.” “You do?” “Without a doubt.” “Good. I love you more though,” I said. Because it’s important in relationships, especially those that felt like forever, to show that you were the better person. Ha.

In a timorous voice, he said he could see clearly now, could see the future. The future is more exponentially exploding rents. The future is more condo buildings, more luxury housing bought by shell companies of the global wealthy elite. The future is more Whole Foods, aisles of refrigerated cut fruit packaged in plastic containers. The future is more Urban Outfitters, more Sephoras, more Chipotles. The future just wants more consumers. The future is more newly arrived college grads and tourists in some fruitless search for authenticity. The future is more overpriced Pabsts at dive-bar simulacrums. Something something Rousseau something. Manhattan is sinking.

Bar-tailed godwits flying with curlew, with knot, with plover; seldom alone, seldom settling; snuffling eccentrics; long-nosed, loud-calling sea-rejoicers; their call a snorting, sneezing, mewing, spitting bark. Their thin upcurved bills turn, their heads turn, their shoulders and whole bodies turn, their wings waggle. They flourish their rococo flight above the surging water. Screaming gulls corkscrewing high under cloud. Islands blazing with birds. A peregrine rising and falling. Godwits ricocheting across water, tumbling, towering. A peregrine following, swooping, clutching. Godwit and peregrine darting, dodging; stitching land and water with flickering shuttle. Godwit climbing, dwindling, tiny, gone: peregrine diving, perching, panting, beaten.

What was captured on tape sounded apocalyptic. 'Eruption' (first titled 'Guitar Solo,' according to the song’s track sheet), takes flight after a quick drum fill and a power chord. Edward sends notes and harmonics soaring before diving down with some gravity-defying tremolo bar bends. Alex and Michael then fire off a flak burst of three chords. Edward maneuvers again, twisting and turning, strafing and bombing before turning on the jets and heading skyward with a flurry of notes. He recedes again, leaving only a descending low note in his wake. After another pause, he attacks again, faster than ever. He weaves and twists and then unleashes his secret weapon: his two-handed tapping technique that would astound and confound guitarists across the world. Finally, an atomic blast, courtesy of Edward’s Univox echo chamber, concludes this minute and forty-three seconds of open warfare on the guitar world.

Immediately after leaving the gate we encountered a bunch of raggedly dressed street kids. They blinked sad brown eyes and held out their hands begging for money, but we ignored them. Dan flashed us an accusing look, as if we were heartless bastards. He fished some coins out of his pocket, and tossed them to the children. A frantic mob of kids immediately overwhelmed Dan, hopping up and down, clamoring for money. Dan finally broke free from the grasping children, and we set off down the street. Suddenly, Dan stopped dead in his tracks, belatedly realizing his expensive scuba diving watch was missing. While we laughed and said, “I told you so!” Dan rubbed his naked wrist and stomped around the street in disbelief, bemoaning the loss of his watch. Then an innocent looking little boy timidly approached Dan. Obviously feeling sorry for the kind-hearted American, the cute little ragamuffin timidly spoke, “Mister, I know who stole your watch. Give me a hundred pesos and I’ll get it back for you.” Dan breathed a sigh of relief, thanked the little angel profusely, and gave him a hundred pesos worth eight American dollars. The little boy quickly scuttled into the crowd never to be seen again. We laughed so hard we were choking. Dan had just set a new chump record, losing an expensive watch and a hundred pesos all within minutes of leaving the base. We dragged him into the nearest bar to console him with cold San Miguel beer.

This was why I hated going out among people. People.

She could tell that he had at first thought his Halloween night to be swallowed by an empty dive bar, but her sitting there meant the night was looking up.