Memory Is A Mirror That Scandalously Lies.

What Most People Call Loving Consists Of Picking Out A Woman And Marrying Her. They Pick Her Out, I Swear, I’ve Seen Them. As If You Could Pick In Love, As If It Were Not A Lightning Bolt That Splits Your Bones And Leaves You Staked Out In The Middle Of The Courtyard. They Probably Say That They Pick Her Out Because-they-love-her, I Think It’s Just The Siteoppo. Beatrice Wasn’t Picked Out, Juliet Wasn’t Picked Out. You Don’t Pick Out The Rain That Soaks You To A Skin When You Come Out Of A Concert.

I Think It Is Vanity To Want To Put Into A Story Anything But The Story Itself.

I Raised The Camera, Pretended To Study A Focus Which Did Not Include Them, And Waited And Watched Closely, Sure That I Would Finally Catch The Revealing Expression, One That Would Sum It All Up, Life That Is Rhythmed By Movement But Which A Stiff Image Destroys, Taking Time In Cross Section, If We Do Not Choose The Essential Imperceptible Fraction Of It.

The More A Book Is Like An Opium Pipe, The More The Chinaman Reader Is Satisfied With It And Tends To Discuss The Quality Of The Drug Rather Than Its Lethargic Effects.

I'm Such A Jerk; It Had Never Occurred To Me That When We Look At A Photo From The Front, The Eyes Reproduce Exactly The Position And The Vision Of The Lens; It's These Things That Are Taken For Granted And It Never Occurs To Anyone To Think About Them.