Ask the Dust (The Saga of Arturo Bandini #3)

by John Fante

Bandini on the bed, put himself there with an air of casualness, like a man who knew how to sit on a bed.

Sometimes an idea floated harmlessly through the room. It was like a small white bird. It meant no ill-will. It only wanted to help me, dear little bird. But I would strike at it, hammer it out across the keyboard, and it would die on my hands.

It was very bad coffee. When the cream mixed with it I realized it was not cream at all, for it turned a greyish color, and the taste was that of boiled rags. This was my last nickel, and it made me angry.