Do you think it makes people nasty to be loved? You know it doesn’t! Then why should it make them nice to be loathed? While you’re being persecuted, you hate what’s happening to you, you hate the people who are making it happen; you’re in a world of hate. Why, you wouldn’t recognize love if you met it! You’d suspect love! You’d think there was something behind it—some motive—some trick.

I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking.

The town is an advertisement for itself; none of its charms are left to the visitor's imagination.

I'm very militant, you know, in a quite way.

I am a camera, with its shutter open. Someday, all of this will be developed, printed, fixed.

If it’s going to be a world with no time for sentiment, it’s not a world that I want to live in.

Staring and staring into the mirror, it sees many faces within its face - the face of the child, the boy, the young man, the not-so-young man - all present still, preserved like fossils on superimposed layers, and, like fossils, dead. Their message to this live dying creature is: Look at us - we have died - what is there to be afraid of? It answers them: But that happened so gradually, so easily. I'm afraid of being rushed.