Time Is Born In The

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 Mysterious Does Not Spell Itself Out In Capital Letters, As Many Writers Believe, But Is Always Between, An Interstice.

(memory Is) A Strange Echo, Which Stores Its Replicas According To Some Other Acoustic Than Consciousness Or Expectation.

For Me The Thing That Signals A Great Story Is What We Might Call Its Autonomy, The Fact That It Detaches Itself From Its Author Like A Soap Bubble Blown From A Clay Pipe.

What Good Is A Writer If He Can't Destroy Literature? And Us... What Good Are We If We Don't Help As Much As We Can In That Destruction?