I had dinner with one of my former editors who finally turned out to be an artist.
He said: “I sold my house, now I’ve so much money that I don’t know what to do with it. There are so many good causes. And I don’t want to make the difference between life and death. Then I almost feel like a Nazi.”
“I understand,” I said.
We were the last two people in the restaurant. “Let’s go,” I said. “Do you want to share a cab?”
“Yes,” he said.