You’re an expatriate. You’ve lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around café s.
You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a b**ch. Yes. It’s sort of what we have instead of God.
This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don’t want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste.
The world was not wheeling anymore. It was just very clear and bright, and inclined to blur at the edges.
It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing.