The manoir had once been the writer’s home, and she found herself in some modest contrapuntal dance with him.
Approaching your building on West Twelfth Street, you observe the architect’s dim concept of European fortresses: a crenelated tower atop the building conceals the water tank
You cross under the rusting stanchions of the old elevated highway and walk out to the pier. The easterly light skims across the broad expanse of the Hudson.
The Americans who weren’t just abstract leaseholders were mercenaries and AWOL factotums left over from the war.
There was that joke about what a man needs to survive: food, shelter, papaya and strange papaya. In a world where papaya isn’t a fruit but the damp, warm syncline between a woman’s thighs.
