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“Who you kiddin? There’s no middle class anymore, we’re all just poor.”

The rich man adorns himself and the elegant man gets dressed.

He was regarded as a visionary and a fool in almost equal measure.

Now all I was, all I had ever been, when it came down to it, was a tenant.

The person was seeing his printed face superimposed over his real one.

He will, no doubt, be out of this house soon, headed over to Montgomery.

He told his father he wanted to make art pictures, not lousy mobster stuff.

The social-media world was ablaze with his daughter’s bagunça.

Elsewhere, perhaps here too, regimes stagger, a congress ends.

We had run out of every necessity. You name it, we didn’t have it.

Thank goodness Dad died—sounds awful but he left his condo paid for.

Even the busiest of businessmen are out for the count, paying the price.

You don’t know what it’s like to be so hungry that you’d steal to eat.

Her biggest secret was Jay Currie—her white American boyfriend.

Here, Min Jin reads from her novel at Narrative Night, New York City.

At Walden Pond, Henry Thoreau clicks like on the “Wilderness” page.

Why am I always asleep in your poems? Look at me Ben, when am I.

No matter how much money there is, it can always just drain away.

From that day on, Sivaprakasam got embroiled in an ungodly mess.

I’ve never heard of Badgley Mischka (A person? Two people? Man?)

My new car cost more than my dad’s first house; I Googled it.

Our grandmothers were bakers and nurses, spies and traitors.

A scene from the night before comes rushing forward like a dream.

Hello, women rising up against toxic men. I salute you. And I apologize.

Rules are rules. No one comes this close, this fast. Protocol reigns.

A dangerous heat came from him, the heat of some interior decay.

His chest was sweaty and his T-shirt stuck to it, bleeding black.

The problem, as it turned out, is: Forever can be surprisingly short.

The mountains out your window make Central Park feel rinky-dink.