Sublime

Before leaving, Wolfe scrounged for a pencil, then scribbled on the wall of the vestibule: THOMAS WOLFE LIVED HERE.

More a friend to his authors than a taskmaster, he aided them in every way. He helped them structure their books, if help was needed; thought up titles, invented plots; he served as psychoanalyst, lovelorn adviser, marriage counselor, career manager, money-lender. Few editors before him had done so much work on manuscripts, yet he was always faithf

Eliot Rosewater.

Blackshear sipped his drink uneasily, realizing that he had never actually known Verna Clarvoe. In the past he had seen her in character, playing the rôle she thought was expected of her, the pretty and frivolous wife of a man who could afford her. She was still onstage, but she’d forgotten her lines, and the props and backdrop had been removed and

good blood and a good disposition. One

Now Billy and the rest were being marched into the ruins by their guards. I was there. O’Hare was there.

Then he and Scribner discussed a limited edition of William Butler Yeats’s works.

Billy answered. There was a drunk on the other end. Billy could almost smell his breath—mustard gas and roses.