It is a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future; moments that should have been allowed to be evaporate into the past; should exist only in memories, glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down.

I'd pretty much given up hope of being published, so I just wrote the book I wanted to read.

When reason sleeps, the monsters of repression will emerge.

. . . companions were to be valued, wherever one found them.

Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other.

I want to be independent. To meet interesting people. ... I just mean new people with clever things to say. Things I've never heard before. I want to be free. Open to whatever adventure comes along and sweeps me off my feet.

I've heard it said that children born to stressful times never shake the air of woe . . . .