Always in the background was Berlin. It was calling me every night, and its voice was the harsh sexy voice of the gramophone records. Berlin had affected me like a party at the end of which I didn’t want to go home.
Make some sacrifice for your art and you will be repaid but ask of art to sacrifice herself for you and a bitter disappointment may come to you.
Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on.
Writers, actors, and prostitutes all face the same fundamental economic problem: they are competing with amateurs who are pretty good and will work for nothing.
Our lofts and apartments are worth millions. Our wives vestigially beautiful. Our renovations as vast and grand in scale as the construction of ocean liners, yet we regularly assure ourselves that our affluence does not define us. We are better than that. Measure us by the books on our shelves, the paintings on our walls, the songs on our iTunes playlists, our children in their secure little school. We live in smug certainty that our taste is impeccable, our politics correct, our sense of outrage at the current regime totally warranted.
(Source: The New York Times)
The breakfast always consisted of scrambled eggs, bacon and black coffee as he insisted that tea tasted like mud and was the reason behind the decline of the British Empire.