Harvey Swados
He no longer maintained the pretense of holding a book before him on deck while he sat half-listening to the little voices of the distant ships. It was in these hours that he knew his own life and its ugliness as no artist could possibly reveal it to him, simply by extending his palm (which had participated in the countless brutalities he had committed in common with all the rest of humanity) and feeling, along its coarse surface, the velvety breath of this pure and unpeopled night.
Nights in the Gardens of Brooklyn, by Harvey Swados
