The man who walks alone is soon trailed by the F.B.I.
In the blur of the photograph, time leaves its gleaming, snail-like track.
We make to ourselves pictures of facts. The picture is a model of reality
As the style of Faulkner grew out of his rage--out of the impotence of his rage--the style of Hemingway grew out of the depth andnuance of his disenchantment.
The past is useless. That explains why it is past.
Images proliferate. Am I wrong in being reminded of printing money in a period of wild inflation? Do we know what we are doing? Are we able to evaluate what we have done?