When the civil rights battle was won, all the Jews and hippies and artists were middle class white people and all the blacks were still poor. Materially, not much changed.

What's beautiful about art is that it circumscribes a space, a physical and mental space. If you try to put the entire world into every page, you turn out chaos.

All paths lead nowhere; choose one with heart...

My heart, to put it more simply, got nostalgic for the present. Always a bad sign.

I'm a firm believer that there are no rules in art. Every trajectory is different.

My heart and the elevator, a plummet inside a plummet.

How often had that hydrant even been opened? Did you jet water through a car window, what, twice at best? Summer burned just a few afternoons long, in the end. As for flying, Dose never even glanced at the sky. Flying was a summer within a summer, a whim. So why think of it at all?