To Say Goodbye Is To Die A

La Doesn't Have The Heart Of A Paper Cup.

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.

There Was A Desert Wind Blowing That Night. It Was One Of Those Hot Dry Santa Anas That Come Down Through The Mountain Passes And Curl Your Hair And Make Your Nerves Jump And Your Skin Itch. On Nights Like That Every Booze Party Ends In A Fight. Meek Little Wives Feel The Edge Of The Carving Knife And Study Their Husbands' Necks. Anything Can Happen. You Can Even Get A Full Glass Of Beer At A Cocktail Lounge.

When A Book, Any Sort Of Book, Reaches A Certain Intensity Of Artistic Performance, It Becomes Literature. That Intensity May Be A Matter Of Style, Situation, Character, Emotional Tone, Or Idea, Or Half A Dozen Other Things. It May Also Be A Perfection Of Control Over The Movement Of A Story Similar To The Control A Great Pitcher Has Over The Ball.

It Was A Blonde. A Blonde To Make A Bishop Kick A Hole In A Stained-glass Window.