Almost seventy years later I remember clearly how the magic of translating the
words in books into images enriched my life, breaking the barriers of time and space...
One can't fight with oneself, for this battle has only one loser.
Memory is a snare, pure and simple; it alters, it subtly rearranges the past to fit the present.
Writers are the exorcists of their own demons.
Its easy to know what you want to say, but not to say it.
I convinced her that her first loyalty isn't to other people, but to her own feelings.
Life is a shitstorm, in which art is our only umbrella.
Its easy to know what you want to say, but not to say it.
I convinced her that her first loyalty isn't to other people, but to her own feelings.