It is only in his work that an artist can find reality and satisfaction, for the actual world is less intense than the world of his invention and consequently his life, without recourse to violent disorder, does not seem very substantial. The right condition for him is that in which his work in not only convenient but unavoidable.

To begin with, I turn back time. I reverse it to that quaint period, the thirties, when the huge middle class of America was matriculating in a school for the blind. Their eyes had failed them, or they had failed their eyes, and so they were having their fingers pressed forcibly down on the fiery Braille alphabet of a dissolving economy.

Revolution only needs good dreamers who remember their dreams.

All creative work, all life in a sense, is a cri de coeur.

But there are things that happen between a man and a woman in the dark -- that sort of make everything else seem -- unimportant.

There is a time for departure even when there's no certain place to go.

I met her last summer on a moonlight boat trip.