than-graceful prose, nor for the less-than-successful plots, nor for the grammatical errors. I wanted to run to him, to jump on him, to fuck him. ” The door from the dining room swung open again and half a dozen relatives were standing there. He turned to“Bars” and ran his finger down the column till he came to “The Nite Owl” on Morrison and 58th Streets.
I tried to put it into words, and knew that whatever I said would fail to describe it. They insisted that was the only honest way really to do a solid piece of investigative journalism. I mean hacked it off with scissors, himself. Sowhy? And the thought hit me that it might not be such a shoo-in.
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