Time rushes towards us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.

Nothing's more determined than a cat on a hot tin roof.

Oh, Jacques, we're used to each other, we're a pair of captive hawks caught in the same cage, and so we've grown used to each other. That's what passes for love at this dim, shadowy end of the Camino Real.

Everyone should know nowadays the unimportance of the photographic in art: that truth, life, or reality is an organic thing which the poetic imagination can represent or suggest, in essence, only through transformation, through changing into other forms than those which were merely present in appearance.

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

If the writing is honest it cannot be separated from the man who wrote it.

Morning can always be counted on to bring us back to a more realistic level.