Can I love someone...and still think/fly? Love is flying, sown, floating. Thought is solitary flight, beating wings.

Reality has come to seem more and more like what we are shown by cameras.

If I thought that what I'm doing when I write is expressing myself, I'd junk the typewriter. Writing is a much more complicated activity that that.

Sight is a promiscuous sense. The avid gaze always wants more.

The camera makes everyone a tourist in other people's reality, and eventually in one's own.

What I really wanted was every kind of life, and the writer’s life seemed the most inclusive.

Today everything exists to end in a photograph.