Of All The Idiots I Have Met

There Is Something Strangely Determinate And Fatal About A Single Shot In The Night. It Is As If Someone Had Cried A Message To You In One Word, And Would Not Repeat It.

When You Have A Great And Difficult Task, Something Perhaps Almost Impossible, If You Only Work A Little At A Time, Every Day A Little, Suddenly The Work Will Finish Itself.

I Do Not See Eye To Eye With The Camera.

Where A Pack Of Monkeys Had Traveled Over The Road, The Smell Of Them Lingered For A Long Time In The Air, A Dry And Stale, Mousy Smell.

To Me, The Explanation Of Life Seems To Be Its Melody, Its Pattern. And I Feel In Life Such An Infinite, Truly Inconceivable Fantasy.