Alfred Nobel (1833-1896), the inventor of dynamite, was a chemist, engineer, businessman and, most memorably, philanthropist; he was also a scholar, fluent in Russian, French, English and German. Above all, he loved poetry.
She had a hundred grievances against Jay, she had a litany of grievances — they often came to mind unbidden like the hypnogenic lyric of some ancient detergent commercial.
The tone of her voice plus the substance of her remarks were provoking, but B did what he could to keep his poise. He felt no sympathy for her, though he stirred the ashes of former affection hoping to find an ember.
"If something interests me, whether it’s a piece of language or a family relationship or a cow, then I write about it. I never judge ahead of time. I never ask, Is this worth writing about?”
-- Lydia Davis
After he unlocked the door with the key offered him, he warily stepped into a room very much like the bedroom of the house he lived in with his most recent former wife.
Installment 32, the last chapter: “I ran down the street as soon as I heard the announcer on the radio. ‘John Lennon’s been shot as he was entering the Dakota,’” Hana continued. “There were hundreds of people in front of the gates, holding candles, playing guitars, singing.”
How many times had he made the identical trip to the hotel? Every morning for nineteen years minus weekends, and returned back the same way, every evening, five times a week. 52 weeks. 4,940 times. Minus vacations, days off. 4,800. And this time was the last time. He exited at 60th Street and turned up Third Avenue.
Luba never liked the Last Hotel. For one thing, the neighborhood scared her to pieces. During the short walk from the Broadway 72nd St. subway, bums accosted her, filthy palms open. Drug addicts hanging outside buildings, passing back and forth a cigarette, women dressed like men, garbage everywhere.
Imagine the rooms of an Oxford Don./Imagine a text in an ancient tongue./Imagine a jar, its seal found intact./Imagine the mound in which it is stacked./Imagine a poet, hand cramped and eyes red./Imagine his pen that writes what is said./Imagine a tale from so long ago,/And yet so much like a tale we all know.
He opened a large navy blue bowling bag with red letters that spelled BROOKLYN BOMBERS. Turning it over, dollar bills of all denominations flowed out of the bag, floating on to the bed like greenish butterflies.
Dr. T wins the sleaze award. The shrink, announces he is moving out of the hotel. The building manager responds: “I’d never come to a stranger, sit in an office, talk about my problems. I was in Auschwitz. This is my number.” He raised his sleeve and showed his tattoo.
Installment 26: a chance encounter in the elevator. "As Reardon stepped in, he noticed the pretty older woman from the fourth floor. He had seen her before. Dark hair and flashing eyes, her name was Rachel, he thought. He nodded to her as he walked to the back of the elevator car. She wore a short black dress and high heels."
“Well, I prolly don't have much time left. That's why I wrote it to her. So I prolly wouldn't be able ta stop waitin on her ta write back before I had the chance ta do anything, before the old bucket kicked me. Guess everybody dies waitin for somethin they ain't gonna get though.”
