I Married an Artist

About this book

OH, IF YOU WERE A STUPID, FILTHY NEW YORK PIGEON, DULLED to its citizens and living off the scraps of the city, you might fly over the government ponds and tennis courts, over the reservoir, through the meadows and softball diamonds and perch yourself on a section of black wall that rings Central Park and marks the beginning of that reliable grid known as the Upper East Side where, sadly, our story begins.