Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one. A moment. In childhood. When it first occurred to you that you don’t go on forever. It must have been shattering, stamped into one’s memory. And yet, I can’t remember it.
Traitors hoist by their own petard?--or victims of the gods?--we shall never know!
I'm vaguely embarrassed by myself sometimes.
It takes character to withstand the rigours of indolence.
Imagination without skill gives us contemporary art.
Biography is the mesh through which real life escapes.