Nathanael West

He had no belly at all. He was a dried-up little man with the rubbed features and stooped shoulders of a postal clerk. The shiny mohair coat and nondescript trousers of that official would have become him, but he was dressed, as always, elaborately. In the buttonhole of his brown jacket was a lemon flower. His trousers were of reddish Harris tweed with a houndstooth check and on his feet were a pair of magnificent rust-coloured blüchers. His shirt was ivory flannel and his knitted tie a red that was almost black.

– Day of the Locust, Nathanael West