... Years Of Insanity Have Made This

It's Funny. Maria Elena And I, We Are Meant For Each Other And Not Meant For Each Other, It's A Contradiction.

I Will Not Eat Oysters. I Want My Food Dead - Not Sick, Not Wounded - Dead.

Spencer Was Searching For A Woman Interested In Gold, Inorganic Chemistry, Outdoor Sex And The Music Of Bach. In Short, He Was Looking For Himself, Only Female.

That’s One Of The Nice Things About Writing, Or Any Art; If The Thing’s Real, It Just Lives. All The Attendant Hoopla About It, The Success Over It Or The Critical Rejection—none Of That Really Matters. In The End, The Thing Will Survive Or Not On Its Own Merits. Not That Immortality Via Art Is Any Big Deal. Truffaut Died, And We All Felt Awful About It, And There Were The Appropriate Eulogies, And His Wonderful Films Live On. But It’s Not Much Help To Truffaut.

There's No Point In Looking Back, Because There's Nothing You Can Really Do To Improve The Film. You Can Only Aggravate And Wish You Had Done Stuff Better.