Human beings are works in progress that mistakenly think they're finished.
Shadow conceals—light reveals. To know what to reveal and what to conceal, and in what degrees to do this, is all there is to art.
Every light has a point where it is brightest and a point toward which it wanders to lose itself completely. It must be intercepted to fulfill its mission; it cannot function in a void. Light can go straight, penetrate and turn back, be reflected and deflected, gathered and spread, bent as by a soap bubble, made to sparkle and be blocked. Where it is no more is blackness, and where it begins is the core of its brightness. The journey of rays from that central core to the outposts of blackness is the adventure and drama of light.
There are some things which cannot be learned, though they can be studied. Among them are the laws of art—and the lawlessness of it, as well.
A shaft of white light used properly can be far more effective than all the color in the world used indiscriminately.
The only way to succeed is to make people hate you.
The finished product is not finished when the actor is. The work is completed by a pair of shears.
The price of success must be paid in full, in advance.
I have one piece of music, since 1997, and I don't see it having lyrics. Where does it go in this world? So I haven't recorded it.
For every runner who tours the world running marathons, there are thousands who run to hear the leaves and listen to the rain, and look to the day when it is suddenly as easy as a bird in flight.
Science is claiming ever more ground from popular stories of the kind we thought we weren't to believe in.