It Is Pretty Obvious That The Debasement

Alcohol Is Like Love. The First Kiss Is Magic, The Second Is Intimate, The Third Is Routine. After That You Take The Girl's Clothes Off.

You Don't Get Rich, You Don't Often Have Much Fun. Sometimes You Get Beaten Up Or Shot At Or Tossed Into The Jail House. Once In A Long While You Get Dead. Every Other Month You Decide To Give It Up And Find Some Sensible Occupation While You Can Still Walk Without Shaking Your Head. Then The Door Buzzer Rings And You Open The Inner Door To The Waiting Room And There Stands A New Face With A New Problem, A New Load Of Grief, And A Small Piece Of Money.

James Cain - Faugh! Everything He Touches Smells Like A Billygoat. He Is Every Kind Of Writer I Detest, A Faux Naix, A Proust In Greasy Overalls, A Dirty Little Boy With A Piece Of Chalk And A Board Fence And Nobody Looking. Such People Are The Offal Of Literature, Not Because They Write About Dirty Things, But Because They Do It In A Dirty Way.

She Was The Music Heard Faintly On The Edge Of Sound.

The French Have A Phrase For It. The Bastards Have A Phrase For Everything And They Are Always Right. To Say Goodbye Is To Die A Little.