The station wagons arrived at noon, a long shining line that coursed through the west campus.
The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails, and was at rest.
A squat grey building of only thirty-four stories.
You know how it is there early in the morning in Havana with the bums still asleep against the walls of the building; before even the ice wagons come by with ice for the bars?
May I, monsieur, offer my services without running the risk of intruding?
In the shade of the house, in the sunshine on the river bank by the boats, in the shade of the sallow wood and fig tree, Siddhartha, the handsome Brahmin’s son, grew up with his friend Govinda.
This is the closest I will ever come to writing an autobiography.
This is a tale of a meeting of two lonesome, skinny, fairly old white men on a planet which was dying fast.
Beneath the red ramparts of Paris the army of France lay marshaled.
On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. Bridge.
Before the Communists came to power in 1949, I was a sophomore at the Huangpu Military Academy, majoring in political education.
This is the only story of mine whose moral I know.
Hopping a freight out of Los Angeles at high noon one day in late September 1955 I got on a gondola and lay down with my duffel bag under my head and my knees crossed and contemplated the clouds as we rolled north to Santa Barbara.
As a kid I was the youngest member of my family, and the youngest child in any family is always a jokemaker, because a joke is the only way he can enter into an adult conversation.
"I’ve watched through his eyes, I’ve listened through his ears, and I tell you he’s the one."