Seeenough and write it down, I tell myself, and then some morning whenthe world seems drained of wonder, some day when I am only goingthrough the motions of doing what I am supposed to do, which is write —on that bankrupt morning I will simply open my notebook and there itwill all be, a forgotten account with accumulated interest, paid passageback to the world out there: dialogue overheard in hotels and elevatorsand at the hatcheck counter in Pavillon (one middle-aged man shows hishat check to another and says, “That’s my old football number”); impressions of Bettina Aptheker and Benjamin Sonnenberg and Teddy(“Mr. Acapulco”) Stauffer; careful aperçus1 about tennis bums andfailed fashion models and Greek shipping heiresses, one of whom taughtme a significant lesson (a lesson I could have learned from F. ScottFitzgerald, but perhaps we all must meet the very rich for ourselves) byasking, when I arrived to interview her in her orchid-filled sitting roomon the second day of a paralyzing New York blizzard, whether it wassnowing outside.
Saved by Alex Dobrenko and
Certainly it is a distinct profession to rescue from oblivion and to fix the sentiments and thoughts which visit all men more or less generally, that the contemplation of the unfinished picture may suggest its harmonious completion. Associate reverently and as much as you can with your loftiest thoughts. Each thought that is welcomed and recorded i
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