Only in dreams, in poetry, in play do we sometimes arrive at what we were before we were this thing that, who knows, we are.

Wordplay hides a key to reality that the dictionary tries in vain to lock inside every free word.

I have never described this to you before, not so much, I don't think, from lack of truthfulness as that, just naturally, one is not going to explain to people at large that from time to time one vomits up a small rabbit.

For me the thing that signals a great story is what we might call its autonomy, the fact that it detaches itself from its author like a soap bubble blown from a clay pipe.

Salt and the center of the world have to be there, in that spot on the tablecloth.

I raised the camera, pretended to study a focus which did not include them, and waited and watched closely, sure that I would finally catch the revealing expression, one that would sum it all up, life that is rhythmed by movement but which a stiff image destroys, taking time in cross section, if we do not choose the essential imperceptible fraction of it.

I think it is vanity to want to put into a story anything but the story itself.