Night-Blooming Cereus: Stories

But I see that this intimacy, this talking about my own interior, puts you off. The fact that I've abandoned my cigars for a dark burl pipe and carry the tobacco in a square of white crumpled paper, as he did, instead of a pouch. That I peruse used book shops for old French paperbacks whose unread pages must be slit apart. François Raspail's Annuare de la Sant‚ for example, lies at this very moment on my bedside table. I feel you're a good enough friend that I can tell you that I've start...