God save me from myself.
A director must be a policeman, a midwife, a psychoanalyst, a sycophant and a bastard.
Well, nobody's perfect.
I'm not happy. I'm not happy at all.
It was a hot afternoon and I can still remember the smell of honeysuckle all along the street. How can I have known that murder can sometimes smell like honeysuckle?
I hate that word. It's return--a return to the millions of people who've never forgiven me for deserting the screen.