The Past Is Just Something That's Over.

The Town Is An Advertisement For Itself; None Of Its Charms Are Left To The Visitor's Imagination.

If It’s Going To Be A World With No Time For Sentiment, It’s Not A World That I Want To Live In.

You See, Kenny, There Are Some Things You Don't Even Know You Know, Until You're Asked.

California Is A Tragic Country — Like Palestine, Like Every Promised Land. Its Short History Is A Fever-chart Of Migrations — The Land Rush, The Gold Rush, The Oil Rush, The Movie Rush, The Okie Fruit-picking Rush, The Wartime Rush To The Aircraft Factories — Followed, In Each Instance, By Counter-migrations Of The Disappointed And Unsuccessful, Moving Sorrowfully Homeward.

I Am A Camera With Its Shutter Open, Quite Passive, Recording, Not Thinking. Recording The Man Shaving At The Window Opposite And The Woman In The Kimono Washing Her Hair. Some Day, All This Will Have To Be Developed, Carefully Printed, Fixed.