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when she visited the office of the “dubiously named small press,” she met two employees, “the sort of nebbish folk that flow like tepid blood from one publishing venture to the next.”

The ceilings were high, and the walls were made of pale stone with hardwood wainscoting.

all she’d left behind were her plangent songs that tell me so little and her unfinished memoirs that reveal little more

Now that I’ve been around (hey, hey) I am no longer astonished at the lubricity of these old biddies, but at the time I just couldn’t get over it.

I was being savagely pressed against his chest and peremptorily ordered to get into bed.