Фрэнк Синатра простудился

When Sinatra sits to dine, his trusted friends are close; and no matter where he is, no matter how elegant the place may be, there is something of the neighborhood showing because Sinatra, no matter how far he has come, is still something of the boy from the neighborhood—only now he can take his neighborhood with him.

I'm for anything that gets you through the night, be it prayer, tranquilizers or a bottle of Jack Daniel.

He is a piece of our past—but only we have aged, he hasn't...we are dogged by domesticity, he isn't...we have compunctions, he doesn't...it is our fault, not his....

Sinatra with a cold is Picasso without paint, Ferrari without fuel—only worse.