Uniqueness is wasted on youth. Like a fine wine or a solid flossing habit, you'll be grateful for it when you're older. Naturally, being born in a foreign country is not the only coolness savings bond out there, but it is an automatic vehicle into self-possession when there are no other cars on the road. Maybe you don't come from the mansion on the hill or the worst shack at the foot of it. Maybe you're not religious or a spelling bee prodigy. Maybe you're not the youngest of nine kids or the child of a B-list movie star. Oh, but imagine if you had a South African accent.
-- "Bastard Out Of Westchester" from 'I Was Told There'd Be Cake', Sloane Crosely
-- "Bastard Out Of Westchester" from 'I Was Told There'd Be Cake', Sloane Crosely
Alexis Machine was rarely whimsical, and for him to have a whimsical thought in such a situation as this was something which had never happened before. Yet it occurred to him: Of all the people on earth - what? five billion of them? - I'm the only one who is currently standing inside a moving wedding cake with a Heckler & Koch .223 semiautomatic weapon in my hands.
He had never been so shut up in a place. The air had gotten bad almost at once, but he could not have drawn a deep breath in any case. The Trojan Cake's frosting was real, but beneath it was nothing but a thin layer of a gypsum product called Nartex - a kind of high-class cardboard. If he filled his chest the bride and groom standing on top of the cake's top tier would probably topple.
Back in the house, Jack Rangely and Tony Westerman were in the kitchen, and Rollick should be upstairs now. All three of them were armed with Steyr-Aug semi-automatics, the only good machine-gun made in America, and even if some of the bodyguards masquerading as guests were very fast, the three of them should be able to lay down a fire-storm more than adequate to cover their retreat. Just let me out of this cake, Machine thought. That's all I ask.
-- "Steel Machine", George Stark
He had never been so shut up in a place. The air had gotten bad almost at once, but he could not have drawn a deep breath in any case. The Trojan Cake's frosting was real, but beneath it was nothing but a thin layer of a gypsum product called Nartex - a kind of high-class cardboard. If he filled his chest the bride and groom standing on top of the cake's top tier would probably topple.
Back in the house, Jack Rangely and Tony Westerman were in the kitchen, and Rollick should be upstairs now. All three of them were armed with Steyr-Aug semi-automatics, the only good machine-gun made in America, and even if some of the bodyguards masquerading as guests were very fast, the three of them should be able to lay down a fire-storm more than adequate to cover their retreat. Just let me out of this cake, Machine thought. That's all I ask.
-- "Steel Machine", George Stark
If you come to the States, as you threaten in your letters from Tetherdown, Trewallock Lane, Gorran Haven, Cornwall (if I got nothing else out of your missive, the address alone is worth the price of admission), be sure to get in touch with me.
I am pleased to hear that you are writing a book about Jack the Ripper. He has always been my hero. I've always envied him and his activities, but physical limitations have prevented me from following in his footsteps.
Regarding the exclamation marks in "Groucho and Me," I assure you I had nothing to do with that. Some incompetent proofreader is the guilty party. My punctuation never goes beyond a comma or a period. Anything more complicated than that confuses me.
It was very nice hearing from a successful writer. The only other one I've ever had any correspondence with was Somerset Maugham, who recently announced that he now considers himself an extinct volcano. Hoping this finds you on the top of one, I remain,
Cordially,
Groucho Marx
-- Letter to Colin Wilson (1959), "The Groucho Letters"
I am pleased to hear that you are writing a book about Jack the Ripper. He has always been my hero. I've always envied him and his activities, but physical limitations have prevented me from following in his footsteps.
Regarding the exclamation marks in "Groucho and Me," I assure you I had nothing to do with that. Some incompetent proofreader is the guilty party. My punctuation never goes beyond a comma or a period. Anything more complicated than that confuses me.
It was very nice hearing from a successful writer. The only other one I've ever had any correspondence with was Somerset Maugham, who recently announced that he now considers himself an extinct volcano. Hoping this finds you on the top of one, I remain,
Cordially,
Groucho Marx
-- Letter to Colin Wilson (1959), "The Groucho Letters"
A noble king who wished to show his high-mindedness could do no better than have his crown made of iron. Gold is for thieves and swindlers. For this reason they own the most of it.
-- "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre", B. Traven
-- "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre", B. Traven
Oh Lydia, oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia,
Lydia, the Tattooed Lady.
She has eyes that folks adore so,
And a torso even more so.
Lydia oh Lydia, that encyclopedia,
Oh Lydia the Queen of Tattoo.
On her back is the Battle of Waterloo.
Beside it the wreck of the Hesperus, too.
And proudly above waves the Red, White, and Blue,
You can learn a lot from Lydia.
La la la, la la la, la la la, la la la
When her robe is unfurled, she will show you the world,
If you step up and tell her where.
For a dime you can see Kankakee or Paris,
Or Washington crossing the Delaware.
La la la, la la la, la la la, la la la
Oh Lydia oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia,
Oh Lydia the Tattooed Lady
When her muscles start relaxin',
Up the hill comes Andrew Jackson
Lydia oh Lydia, that encyclopidia,
oh Lydia the queen of them all!
For two bits she will do a mazurka in jazz,
With a view of Niagara that nobody has.
And on a clear day you can see Alcatraz.
You can learn a lot from Lydia.
La la la, la la la, la la la, la la la
Come along and see Buff'lo Bill with his lasso.
Just a little classic by Mendel Picasso.
Here is Captain Spaulding exploring the Amazon.
Here's Godiva but with her pajamas on.
La la la, la la la, la la la, la la la
Here is Grover Whalen unveilin' the Trilon.
Over on the West Coast we have Treasure Island.
Here's Najinsky a-doin' the rhumba.
Here's her social security numba.
La la la, la la la, la la la, la la la
Oh Lydia, oh Lydia that encyclopidia,
Oh Lydia the champ of them all.
She once swept an Admiral clear off his feet.
The ships on her hips made his heart skip a beat.
And now the old boy's in command of the fleet,
For he went and married Lydia.
I said Lydia
{He said Lydia}
They said Lydia
{We said Lydia}
La La!
-- "Lydia The Tattooed Lady", Harold Arlen & Yip Harburg (1939)
Lydia, the Tattooed Lady.
She has eyes that folks adore so,
And a torso even more so.
Lydia oh Lydia, that encyclopedia,
Oh Lydia the Queen of Tattoo.
On her back is the Battle of Waterloo.
Beside it the wreck of the Hesperus, too.
And proudly above waves the Red, White, and Blue,
You can learn a lot from Lydia.
La la la, la la la, la la la, la la la
When her robe is unfurled, she will show you the world,
If you step up and tell her where.
For a dime you can see Kankakee or Paris,
Or Washington crossing the Delaware.
La la la, la la la, la la la, la la la
Oh Lydia oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia,
Oh Lydia the Tattooed Lady
When her muscles start relaxin',
Up the hill comes Andrew Jackson
Lydia oh Lydia, that encyclopidia,
oh Lydia the queen of them all!
For two bits she will do a mazurka in jazz,
With a view of Niagara that nobody has.
And on a clear day you can see Alcatraz.
You can learn a lot from Lydia.
La la la, la la la, la la la, la la la
Come along and see Buff'lo Bill with his lasso.
Just a little classic by Mendel Picasso.
Here is Captain Spaulding exploring the Amazon.
Here's Godiva but with her pajamas on.
La la la, la la la, la la la, la la la
Here is Grover Whalen unveilin' the Trilon.
Over on the West Coast we have Treasure Island.
Here's Najinsky a-doin' the rhumba.
Here's her social security numba.
La la la, la la la, la la la, la la la
Oh Lydia, oh Lydia that encyclopidia,
Oh Lydia the champ of them all.
She once swept an Admiral clear off his feet.
The ships on her hips made his heart skip a beat.
And now the old boy's in command of the fleet,
For he went and married Lydia.
I said Lydia
{He said Lydia}
They said Lydia
{We said Lydia}
La La!
-- "Lydia The Tattooed Lady", Harold Arlen & Yip Harburg (1939)
Hymie, who had gone to the car and started the motor, brought back a bottle of brandy. He gave Ginger's knife to Flowers. "Here. Cut all around the pants leg up near the top, the right one." When this had been done, Hymie pulled the pants leg down over the shoe and off. Then he poured half the bottle of brandy on Spina's wooden leg and set it on fire.
-- "Dead City", Shane Stevens
-- "Dead City", Shane Stevens
And so, in my imagination, I see a trailer sitting in a mobile home park in Pahrump, Nevada, or outside Bakersfield, cooking in the sun. Inside it's clean and orderly, the home of a guy who is disciplined, meticulous, a man who lives by himself and likes things just so. There's a small TV, a mustard-colored couch, a fridge well stocked with beer, a battered hard hat sitting on a Formica table, and a pair of dusty work boots resting on a dull green linoleum floor. It's a totally unremarkable place, with almost nothing at all to indicate that its occupant once did something amazing.
But in the bedroom, on top of a particle-board chest of drawers full of tightly rolled socks and neatly folded underwear, there's an old book of poetry that someday the man who lives here might just read. And over the bed, encased in a Wal-Mart frame and hanging from a nail driven into the wood veneer paneling, there's an untitled sketch of a young woman, a kind of free-flowing line drawing, a series of loops and swirls that show the idea of the woman more than the details of her. He's been dragging it around with him for years now, and while he doesn't know much about the drawing, he likes it. It's important to him.
It's by some guy named Matisse.
-- "The Hole In The Ground Gang" from 'Where The Money Is', William J. Rehder and Gordon Dillow
But in the bedroom, on top of a particle-board chest of drawers full of tightly rolled socks and neatly folded underwear, there's an old book of poetry that someday the man who lives here might just read. And over the bed, encased in a Wal-Mart frame and hanging from a nail driven into the wood veneer paneling, there's an untitled sketch of a young woman, a kind of free-flowing line drawing, a series of loops and swirls that show the idea of the woman more than the details of her. He's been dragging it around with him for years now, and while he doesn't know much about the drawing, he likes it. It's important to him.
It's by some guy named Matisse.
-- "The Hole In The Ground Gang" from 'Where The Money Is', William J. Rehder and Gordon Dillow
From here you climb ten thousand feet to the pass. Remembers Mexico City and his first grifa cigarette. Went crazy on it, wonderful crazy, wandering down Nino Perdido and everywhere he sees sugar skulls and fireworks, kids biting into the skulls.
"Dia de los Muertos," a boy tells him and smiles, showing white teeth and red gums. Very white. Very red. Whiter and redder than life, and he thought, Why not? I done it in the reform school.
The boy has a gardenia behind his ear. He wears a white spotless cotton shirt and pants to the ankle with sandals. He smells of vanilla - Ish used to drink it in reform school. The boy understands. He knows un lugar. They stop to watch two pinwheels spinning in opposite directions...he remembers the queasy, floating feeling he got watching it, like being in a fast elevator.
The boy is smiling now and pointing to the black space between the two pinwheels as they sputter out and the blackness spreads wide as all the world and then he knew that was where he was going....
-- "Where He Was Going" from 'Tornado Alley', William S. Burroughs
"Dia de los Muertos," a boy tells him and smiles, showing white teeth and red gums. Very white. Very red. Whiter and redder than life, and he thought, Why not? I done it in the reform school.
The boy has a gardenia behind his ear. He wears a white spotless cotton shirt and pants to the ankle with sandals. He smells of vanilla - Ish used to drink it in reform school. The boy understands. He knows un lugar. They stop to watch two pinwheels spinning in opposite directions...he remembers the queasy, floating feeling he got watching it, like being in a fast elevator.
The boy is smiling now and pointing to the black space between the two pinwheels as they sputter out and the blackness spreads wide as all the world and then he knew that was where he was going....
-- "Where He Was Going" from 'Tornado Alley', William S. Burroughs
His interest in Mirabelle comes from the part of him that still believes he can have her without obligation. He believes he can exist with her from eight to eleven and enter a private and personal world that they will create that will cease to exist in the off hours or off days. He believes that this world will be independent of other worlds he might create on another night, in another place, and he has no intention of allowing it to affect his true quest for a mate. He believes that in this affair, what is given back and forth is exactly even, and that they will both see the benefits they are receiving. But because he picked Mirabelle out by sight alone, he fails to see that her fragility, which he smelled and sensed and is lured by, runs deep in her heart and is part of her nature, and cannot be separated out for him to fuck.
-- "Shopgirl", Steve Martin
-- "Shopgirl", Steve Martin
If you're going to commit a murder - and in the first place, I don't recommend it - one thing you should definitely not do afterward is have sex with the investigating officer's wife. It merely makes for a lot of extraneous complication.
In fact, generally speaking, it seems to me that all police officers' wives are better left alone. In the first place, their husbands walk around all the time with guns. And in the second place, there are so many other things a cop can do to you if he's annoyed; he carries as much power in his badge as in his pistol. So all in all I would suggest that policemen's wives, like nuns, should be left to Mexican bandits.
There's nothing like ignoring your own advice.
-- "Travesty", Donald E. Westlake
In fact, generally speaking, it seems to me that all police officers' wives are better left alone. In the first place, their husbands walk around all the time with guns. And in the second place, there are so many other things a cop can do to you if he's annoyed; he carries as much power in his badge as in his pistol. So all in all I would suggest that policemen's wives, like nuns, should be left to Mexican bandits.
There's nothing like ignoring your own advice.
-- "Travesty", Donald E. Westlake
