John

“Jesus, Oscar, Rudolfo said nervously. You look like they put a shirt on a turd,”
― Junot Díaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

“Silently, wallowing in the pleasures of conspiracy,”
― Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Three Stories

“somebody had taken an old disk of McCartney and the Wings - as in the historical Beatles's McCartney - taken and run it through a Kurtzweil remixer and removed every track on the songs except the tracks of poor old Mrs. Linda McCartney singing backup and playing tambourine.
...

Poor old Mrs. Linda McCartney just fucking could not sing, and having her shaky off-key little voice flushed from the cover of the whole slick multitrack corporate sound and pumped up to solo was to Gately unspeakably depressing - her voice sounding so lost, trying to hide and bury itself inside the pro backups' voices; Gately imagined Mrs. Linda McCartney - in his Staff room's wall's picture a kind of craggy-face blonde - imagined her standing there lost in the sea of her husband's pro noise, feeling low esteem and whispering off-key, not knowing quite when to shake her tambourine: C's depressing CD was past cruel, it was somehow sadistic-seeming, like drilling a peephole in the wall of a handicapped bathroom.”
― David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

“We huddle in the bed, and she squeezes my hand I-love-you.”
― Truman Capote, A Christmas Memory