La Doesn't Have The Heart Of A

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.

He Looked About As Inconspicuous As A Tarantula On A Slice Of Angel Food.

Chess Is As Elaborate A Waste Of Human Intelligence As You Can Find Outside An Advertising Agency.

I Hung Up. It Was A Good Start, But It Didn’t Go Far Enough. I Ought To Have Locked The Door And Hidden Under The Desk.

Nice: Meaning I'm Going To Be Dating Leather-wearing Alcoholics And Complaining About Them - To You.