When I get down to my last dime I'll just walk over to skid row." "There are some real weirdos down there." "They're everywhere." I poured Becker another wine.
The problem is," he said, "that there's not much time to write." "You still want to be a writer?" "Sure.
How about you?" "Yeah," I said, "but it's pretty hopeless." "You mean you're not good enough?" "No, they're not good enough." "What do you mean?" "You read the magazines? The 'Best Short Stories of the Year' books? There are at least a dozen of them." "Yeah, I read them . . ." "You read The New Yorker" Harper's? The Atlantic?" "Yeah ..." "This is 1940. They're still publishing 19th Century stuff, heavy, labored, pretentious.
You either get a headache reading the stuff or you fall asleep.". "What's wrong?" "It's a trick, it's a con, a little inside game." "Sounds like you've been rejected." "I knew I would be.
Why waste the stamps? I need wine." "I'm going to break through," said Becker.
You'll see my books on the library shelves one day." "Let's not talk about writing." "I've read your stuff," said Becker.
