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.

Writes have an island, a center of refuge, within themselves. It is the mind's anchorage, the soul's Great Good Place.

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?

The photograph, after all, is just a photograph. Words will determine its meaning and status.

Everyone in California is from somewhere else.

We make to ourselves pictures of facts. The picture is a model of reality

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.