A half-hour conversation with Binky was like eating a Whitman Sampler in one sitting.
Pete thinks we all have a blacking factory: some awful moment, early on, when we surrender our childish hearts as surely as we lose our baby teeth.
The film itself involves a New York City radio storyteller, Gabriel Noone, who strikes up a friendship with one of his fans, an abused 14-year-old teenager who is suffering from AIDS, who does not hav...
You cannot be loved by someone who doesn't want to know you.
The bay was bright blue today, the hard fierce blue of a gas flame. If there was fog rolling in—and there must be, given the insistence of those horns—she couldn’t see it from here.
Could you conjugate that? To sleaze. I sleaze. You sleaze. We all have sleazen.
There’s a theory, said Anna, handing him a cup of tea as she climbed back into bed, that we are all Atlanteans. Who? Us. San Franciscans. Edgar grinned indulgently, bracing himself for another yarn. A...
I couldn't write—or wouldn't write, at any rate—unable to face the grueling self-scrutiny that fiction demands
Thack seemed to sort something out for a moment. Sometimes I watch him when he’s playing with Harry or digging in the yard. And I think: This is it, this is the guy I’ve waited for all my life. Then t...
We have rules. Full disclosure, for one thing. And we're in bed with each other at the end of the day. Our commitment is for life, and we save our hearts for each other. That way we can have play AND...
His name is Jed, he said. He’s in pre-law at Rice University. That’s all I know, except that he’s probably straight. The landlady gave him a sly smile. That’s what he told you? He’s probably straight?...
The menu at the Hug Deli included, among other items, the Warm and Fuzzy Hug, the Beverly Hills Air Kiss Hug, and the Gangsta Hug, with side orders of Pinch, Tickle, and Back Scratch. She ordered the...
THERE WERE MORNINGS WHEN VINCENT FELT LIKE THE last hippie in the world. The Last Hippie. The phrase assumed a kind of tragic grandeur as he stood in the bathroom of his Oak Street flat, fluffing his...
Such a suitable word, stroke. I'd heard it since childhood without fully understanding its meaning, but it sounded, even through a haze of sleep and dope, just like itself: abrupt and brutal and irrev...
Laugh all you want and cry all you want and whistle at pretty men in the street and to hell with anybody who thinks you're a damned fool!
DEAR MAMA, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write. Every time I try to write to you and Papa I realize I’m not saying the things that are in my heart. That would be O.K., if I loved you any less tha...
Life goes on, sport.
Numbed by disappointment and betrayal, like a child who had been awakened suddenly from a summer dream about christmas morning.
She was Anna Madrigal, a self-made woman, and there was no one else in the world exactly like her.
You don’t have to keep up, dear. You just have to keep open.
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