You, yesterday, did the usual things, just as any day, You don't know if it's worth remembering. You would prefer to remember, there lying in the half-darkness of the bedroom, not what has happened already but what is going to happen. In your half-darkness your eyes would prefer to look ahead, not behind, and they do not know how to foresee the past.

Recognize yourself in he and she who are not like you and me.

The possibility of being as free with the camera as we are with the pen is a fantastic prospect for the creative life of the 21st century.

The citizen takes his city for granted far too often. He forgets to marvel.

The great wheel of fire of ancient wisdom, silence and word engendering the myth of the origin, human action engendering the epic voyage toward the other; historical violence revealing the tragic flaw of the hero who must then return to the land of origin; myth of death and renewal and silence from which new words and images will arise, keeps on turning in spite of the blindness of purely lineal thought.

Death is the great Maecenas, Death is the great angel of writing. You must write because you are not going to live any more.

There is no creation without tradition; the 'new' is an inflection on a preceding form; novelty is always a variation on the past.