They told me to take a street-car named Desire, and transfer to one called Cemeteries, and ride six blocks and get off at—Elysian Fields!
Stella, oh, Stella, Stella! Stella for Star!
Sit there and stare at me, thinking I let the place go? I let the place go? Where were you! In bed with your–Polack!
Since earliest manhood the center of [Stanley’s] life has been pleasure with women, the giving and taking of it, not with weak indulgence, dependently, but with the power and pride of a richly feathered male bird among hens.
I never met a woman that didn’t know if she was good-looking or not without being told, and some of them give themselves credit for more than they’ve got.
Now let’s cut the re-bop!
After all, a woman’s charm is fifty percent illusion.
Oh, I guess he’s just not the type that goes for jasmine perfume, but maybe he’s what we need to mix with our blood now that we’ve lost Belle Reve.
The kitchen now suggests that sort of lurid nocturnal brilliance, the raw colors of childhood’s spectrum.
I can’t stand a naked light bulb, any more than I can a rude remark or a vulgar action.
There are things that happen between a man and a woman in the dark–that sort of make everything else seem–unimportant.
What you are talking about is brutal desire–just–Desire!–the name of that rattle-trap street-car that bangs through the Quarter.
I told you already I don’t want none of his liquor and I mean it. You ought to lay off his liquor. He says you’ve been lapping it up all summer like a wild-cat!
Please don’t get up. I’m only passing through.
You left nothing here but spilt talcum and old empty perfume bottles–unless it’s the paper lantern you want to take with you. You want the lantern?