Friday Noir: The Pulp Writer

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“There weren’t any more hitches now. The story flowed like a torrent. The margin bell chimed almost staccato, the roller turned with almost piston-like continuity, the pages sprang up almost like blobs of batter from a pancake skillet. The bourbon kept rising in the glass and, contradictorily, steadily falling lower. The cigarettes gave up their ghosts, long thin gray ghosts, in a good cause; the mortality rate was terrible.”

~ Cornell Woolrich, The Penny-A-Worder

(c)Mark Krajnak | JerseyStyle Photography | 2016

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