The past is useless. That explains why it is past.
Everyone in California is from somewhere else.
In the blur of the photograph, time leaves its gleaming, snail-like track.
The imagination made us human, but being human, becoming more human, is a greater burden than we imagined. We have no choice but to imagine ourselves more human than we are.
However much [photographs] may lie, they do so with the raw materials of truth.
The man who comes to writing late, but is in essence a writer, may sometimes gain as much as he has lost: his experience of life has given him a subject, he is spared the youthful writer's self-torment and soul-searching.