I am ashamed every day, and more ashamed the next.

Just because it's on the radio doesn't mean we have to suspend belief in the evidence of our senses.

People say great art is immortal. I say there's something mortal in it. It carries a glimpse of death.

I understand there are some men who are only half here. Let's not say men. Let's say people. People who are more or less obscure at times.

The world is full of abandoned meanings. In the commonplace I find unexpected themes and intensities.

The figure of the gunman in the window was inextricable from the victim and his history. This sustained Oswald in his cell. It gave him what he needed to live. The more time he spent in a cell, the stronger he would get. Everybody knew who he was now.

Stories have no point if they don't absorb our terror.