But, wifey, I did it all, I wrote the book, I stalked the streets of life, of Manhattan, of Long Island, stalked thru 1,183 pages of my first novel, sold the book, got an advance, whooped, hallelujah’d, went on, did everything you’re supposed to do in life.

But nothing ever came of it.

No ‘generation’ is ‘new’. There’s ‘nothing new under the sun’. ‘All is vanity.’ (268).