There Must Be Times When Everybody Writes

I Was Supposed To Have A Script, And Had Mislaid It. I Was Supposed To Hear Cues, And No Longer Did. I Was Meant To Know The Plot, But All I Knew Was What I Saw: Flash Pictures In Variable Sequence, Images With No 'meaning' Beyond Their Temporary Arrangement, Not A Movie But A Cutting-room Experience.

The Impulse For Much Writing Is Homesickness. You Are Trying To Get Back Home, And In Your Writing You Are Invoking That Home, So You Are Assuaging The Homesickness.

Only The Dying Man Can Tell How Much Time He Has Left.

We Forget All Too Soon The Things We Thought We Could Never Forget.

Tuesday, September 11, 2001, Dawned Temperate And Nearly Cloudless In The Eastern United States.