Had I any idea how blech this winter would be when I began this, wow, it’s good I didn’t.
A few words from a few excellent writers, three to be exact:
I smoked Gauloises after Gauloises, grasping the blue package as if it were my ticket to immortality. I drank coffee, black as the eyeliner I wore. I went out alone.
It’s wonderfully bracing to be disapproved of by the French. You know you’ve been taken seriously, that life is affirmed as a serious matter of form, not simply a business of messy content.
If it be correct– as my Copenhagen director, of blessed memory, did hold forth to me– that woman is to man what poetry is to prose, then are the womenfolk we come across from day to day poems read aloud with taste, and please the ear….