The Novel Wins By Points, The Short

But What Is Memory If Not The Language Of Feeling, A Dictionary Of Faces And Days And Smells Which Repeat Themselves Like The Verbs And Adjectives In A Speech, Sneaking In Behind The Thing Itself,into The Pure Present, Making Us Sad Or Teaching Us Vicariously.

[heaven Is] That Moment In Which Something Attains Its Maximum Depth, Its Maximum Reach, Its Maximum Sense, And Becomes Completely Uninteresting.

I Think We All Have A Little Bit Of That Beautiful Madness That Keeps Us Walking When Everything Around Us Is So Insanely Sane.

The Best Literature Is Always A Take [in The Musical Sense]; There Is An Implicit Risk In Its Execution, A Margin Of Danger That Is The Pleasure Of The Flight, Of The Love, Carrying With It A Tangible Loss But Also A Total Engagement That, On Another Level, Lends The Theater Its Unparalleled Imperfection Faced With The Perfection Of Film. I Don’t Want To Write Anything But Takes.

Of All Our Feelings The Only One Which Really Doesn't Belong To Us Is Hope. Hope Belongs To Life, It's Life Itself Defending Itself. Etcetera.