I hear music Mighty fine music, The murmur of a morning breeze up there The rattle of the milkman on the stair Sure that's music.

Me, I'm complicated. But it's a living, I tell myself. Also, every once in a long while this disease manages to produce a fine and beautiful truth--as (they say) some oyster illness makes the wondrously perfect pearl.

Luck, be a lady tonight.

I string sounds together. But to string them I have to remember a bunch of old ones I heard somewhere and then juggle them into a new rhythm and shape.

You dogs are smart enough to know that worry is something you do with a bone, and let it got at that. Even Pavlov couldn't do any more than prove that your brain is in your gut--something that you knew all along.

A secretary is not a toy.

What I really have a sense of dismay about is that there is a center of anything. I think maybe Cleveland can use one. Also possibly Los Angeles needs informed cultural guidance and a place to go get it. But not New York. New York is a center, a world's fair, and a den of thieves, and a house of miracles.