And “The Personal Promise Bible” is custom-printed with the owner’s name (“The LORD is Daniel’s shepherd”), home town (“Woe to you, Brooklyn! Woe to you, New York!”), and spouse’s name (“Gina’s two breasts are like two fawns”).
So much Baetica oil was sent to Rome that the amphorae in which it was transported, disposed of at a dump at the southeastern edge of the city, grew to a hill fifty metres high, known today as Monte Testaccio, or Mt. Potsherd.
__ Motley bottles with ridiculous names, like jesters at a Renaissance fair: SkullSplitter, Old Leghumper, Slam Dunkel, Troll Porter, Moose Drool, Power Tool, He’brew, and Ale Mary Full of Taste.
__ “They said, ‘You want to do what, son? Well, write up a bill!’ ”
“I promise. Let’s get together while you’re in New York.” The two men pulled out identical Hermès pocket diaries and Cartier gold pencils, put on their reading glasses, and peered at the week ahead, where, it turned out, neither of them had a free moment.
“Lunch with Jackie, cocktails with the Paleys, dinner at the Bombolanas—you know them, Irving, surely. That’s it for Tuesday,” Capote said.
Lazar studied his own diary as if it were the Rosetta stone. “Lunch with the Princess Borbón y Parma, cocktails with Marietta Tree, dinner at Lenny Bernstein’s—that’s it for Wednesday.”
Done by aproned, middle-aged people, ponderous with beefsteak and beer, the waltz is an appalling spectacle.