Henry James

I live in the absolute center of the petal of the flower of capitalism.

Where it's possible to receive a Facebook post from a dead man, as I did this morning from an acquaintance who's not been in the world for at least three years.

I'm sure it was a mistake, however honest it might have been.

People in the old days were much more grown-up. I can't remember either of my grandmothers ever complaining, even though near the end of their lives they must have been in pain.

Last night I opened the pillbox and found a gray hair. It must've been mine but I don't know how it got in there.

For some reason it caused me to remember the old Marxist I'd met at a party in Los Angeles years ago. When he asked what I did for a living, I said I was a writer. He said, "you know what Lenin said of writers?"

"No," I said, "I don't."

"That paper tolerates anything."