Eleven Kinds of Loneliness

Then she asked me if I wanted to know something, and without waiting to find out whether I did or not, she told me.

Being told he was right was always a tonic to Ken

But late that night, as Irving Berlin himself might say, something kind of wonderful happened. I took that little bastard of a story and I built the hell out of it.

there is an automatic pleasure in watching a thing done well.

Like frustrated suburban wives we fed on each other's discontent; we became divided into mean little cliques and subdivided into jealously shifting pairs of buddies, and we pieced out our idleness with gossip.

Then they came out, Finney wearing the foolish smile you sometimes see in the crowds that gape at street accidents

"Where are the windows?" he demanded, spreading his hands. "That's the question. Where does the light come in?"