The Brain Heals The Past Like An

The Best Of Our Theater Is Standing On Tiptoe, Striving To See Over The Shoulders Of Father And Mother. The Worst Is Exploiting And Wallowing In The Self-pity Of Adolescence And Obsessive Keyhole Sexuality. The Way Out, As The Poet Says, Is Always Through.

When Irrational Terror Takes To Itself The Fiat Of Moral Goodness Somebody Has To Die. ... No Man Lives Who Has Not Got A Panic Button, And When It Is Pressed By The Clean White Hand Of Moral Duty, A Certain Murderous Train Is Set In Motion.

Let You Look Sometimes For The Goodness In Me, And Judge Me Not.

... Vulgarity Has No Nation.

The Camera Has Its Own Kind Of Consciousness; In The Lens The Garden Of Eden Itself Would Become Ever So Slightly Too Perfect.