. . . As to sleep, you know, I never sleep now. I might be a Watchman, except that I don't get any pay, and he's got nothing on his mind.
The photograph, after all, is just a photograph. Words will determine its meaning and status.
The past is useless. That explains why it is past.
In the blur of the photograph, time leaves its gleaming, snail-like track.
The camera eye is the one in the middle of our forehead, combining how we see with what there is to be seen.
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.
However much [photographs] may lie, they do so with the raw materials of truth.
The world thirsts for grace. When grace descends, the world falls silent before it.
Harriet never minded admitting she didn't know something. So what, she thought, I could always learn.
Imaginative literature primarily pleases rather than teaches. It is much easier to be pleased than taught, but much harder to know why one is pleased. Beauty is harder to analyze than truth.
The only measures that count are progress over your own self, and triumph over the vacant abstractions that most people mistake for thinking.