Finger Quotes - page 21

How fevered is the man who cannot look Upon his mortal days with temperate blood, Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book, And robs his fair name of its maidenhood; It is as if the rose should pluck herself, Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom, As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf, Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom;.. (John Keats)
He reached his hand toward me. "You don't mind my asking, do you?” "Of course not,” I say calmly as I reverse the lit end of the cigarette so that the flame is cupped in the palm. I reach for his handshake. He screams like a woman in distress with her skirt held high. I puff my meanness as he licks at the burn and whimpers, "You sonofagun. You've burned the dickens out of my hand.” "I know.” "But why? I didn't do anything. I don't even know you.” "I guess it's my Samoan blood.” Sal rushes to my defense. He points his finger at the fag. "Out!” "But I didn't do anything.” "Out, out!” he shouts, his hands stiffly on the bar. The old fag picks himself up and begins to drag himself out. View quote
Oscar Zeta Acosta